


And Crows will Cry

by MeikoAtsushi



Series: And Crows will Cry [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!, 富豪刑事 Balance:UNLIMITED | Fugou Keiji: Balance:Unlimited (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Part 2 of And Crows will Cry universe, can be read as a stand-alone, no specific warnings will be given due to the plot, this is so slow burn that the author is dying over it, you do not have to watch fugou keiji to understand this at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeikoAtsushi/pseuds/MeikoAtsushi
Summary: “I’m a crow, detective. I serve my flock, nobody else.”“As far as I know, your flock has abandoned you.”Alternatively:Sugawara Koushi has lost everything. Money, rank, fame, trust, comrades, you name it. And it's because some asinine cop infatuated with justice decided to save his ass.That same cop returns one day, proclaiming that he'd help him regain all that back.His name is Sawamura Daichi.
Relationships: Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, too many pairings to tag - Relationship
Series: And Crows will Cry [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029528
Comments: 155
Kudos: 129





	1. The Crow and the Hunting Dog

**Author's Note:**

> I have returned! This is honestly a lot faster than I anticipated, and I must say, the outline isn't perfected yet (but that's okay, I never actually finished writing the plot for 'And Foxes will Lie' till I was at chapter 7 or something). 
> 
> If you haven't read Part 1 of this series, 'And Foxes will Lie,' I will tell you now that it isn't necessary. However, there are details scattered throughout this fic which refer back to those in part 1, not to mention that half of the world-building process is done in part 1 as well (so it might be easier to read part 1 to just get a gist of what the universe is like), but again, you don't have to. 
> 
> For those who have read part 1, the characters who were only mentioned in part 1 finally appear in part 2! Part 2 is a continuation of the case handled in part 1, so all the unanswered questions from part 1 will be solved here. 
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: I don't include specific warnings for my fics, because they spoil the plot and pretty much the whole story if I do. However, for this fic, I will include warnings in the chapters which I feel warnings may be needed. Please do be aware that this fic deals with crime and serious themes, though, and that's what you'll read about. 
> 
> Update cycle: Once a week, but I don't know how this semester will go. Last semester, I updated every 2 days. In general, you should not trust my update cycles because I don't keep them (lmao). 
> 
> Yakuza terms:  
> \- Kumicho - the boss  
> \- Wakagashira/Shateigashira - second-in-command (there's technically more, but I will not go into the details for this fic)  
> \- dogs - a derogatory term used by the yakuza to refer to the police
> 
> Anyway, enough from me. Enjoy chapter 1!

“Koushi.”

“Mn.”

_Clink, clink._

“You should go home.”

“One more glass.”

“I wouldn't recommend it."

“I’m not drunk,” he slurs, and doesn’t see the unconvinced frown plastered onto the short bartender’s face. “Look, I just,” his head aches. His breath reeks of gin and beer and something else. “I just wanna get drunk tonight. Knocked out. Y'know?" 

“Shoyo said that you got shitfaced yesterday and vomited all over the counter. I’m not cleaning your half-digested dinner.”

“Then just serve me orange juice or whatever, I’ll get high on sugar. No, actually – Kahlua milk. How ‘bout that? Or pomegranate soju, or –“

“No.”

“ _Kenmaaaa.”_

No answer. The blonde has gone into the kitchen to prepare another customer’s order. Sugawara Koushi crumples the bar’s branded tissue he was fiddling with for the past twenty minutes in place of a cigarette. He’s quit smoking only ten months ago. In frustration, he downs the melted ice cubes in his glass. The diluted beer doesn’t even tickle his throat, a pitiful fizz prickling his tongue for mere seconds.

He bites on the cubes, running his wet fingers through his oily locks of hair. _What am I even doing here,_ a shard of ice grazes his gums. _Get yourself together, Koushi._

December 31st.

It has been three months since then.

Has it really been that long?

To Sugawara, it feels like a week ago. Maybe even five days, excluding the nights where he was knocked out in bed, intoxicated.

Two hours before New Year’s, Sugawara Koushi lost everything.

A cup of water appears on the table. He peers up. Kozume Kenma stands there, impassive. “You’re hurting your teeth.” He points at the ice in Sugawara’s mouth. “Don’t do that.” The water’s temperature is mild, no ice.

Sugawara smiles wryly. “Thanks.”

Kenma simply takes out his phone and sits on his stool behind the bar.

“Kenma,” his reflection in the water wobbles. “I should be grateful that I lived, right?”

Eleven years, two hours. It’s comical how everything he’s built nearly half his life can be destroyed in the span of a toddler’s nap.

“Koushi.” Kenma is staring at him. He doesn’t look at him, but he can sense it. Kenma had that uncanny ability. "What’s already done is done. Nothing can be changed. If anything, we’re all glad that you’re breathing, not rotting in a coffin.”

It's all about breathing, being alive, living the moment. 

Of course. They're in a world where their lives for tomorrow, or even the next ten minutes, aren't promised.

“Yeah.” He breathes in. “Yeah, I know.”

December 31st, New Year’s Eve, he was pursued by a mysterious group of men in black, armed and gloved.

He was roaming the streets with no particular destination in mind. His gun was resting in the second drawer of his wardrobe, under a folded stack of summer T-shirts; it’s not like he ever used the weapon, anyway. He wasn’t Tanaka or Nishinoya, always sought after by their enemies, and he was not considered a threat, despite being the shateigashira of Karasuno.

Perhaps, his circumstance would’ve been different had he been more cautious.

It was only when he passed the outdated Christmas tree beside a bakery that he realized he was being followed. There was an ominous presence somewhere in the back – a wild hunch, but these kinds of hunches and instincts were typically accurate.

 _There are civilians around,_ was his initial thought. He had to seclude himself from the crowd. It was New Year’s Eve, after all. Naturally, people would be everywhere.

He briskly slipped into an alley a couple meters farther from the bakery, swerving at corners he knew wouldn’t be as populated, and then sprinted. With a cuss, footsteps echoed throughout the atmosphere. _Shit, there’s more than I expected,_ his hand reached into his blazer. A few emergency blades, a swiss army knife, and a handkerchief, _damn it, I’m not going to last._

 _Asahi, Asahi, Asahi…_ he laid flat against a wall, suppressing his panting as he inhaled through his nostrils.

“… _where is…”_

_“He disappeared…”_

He brought the speaker to his ear as soon as he dialed the number. “ _Please, please, please_ …” One ring, two rings, three rings –

“ _He’s there!”_

 _Jesus._ He whipped out one of his blades and aimed for one of the guys’ shoulders and dashed. A pained cry, “ _Catch him!”_

The line connected. “ _Suga?”_

_“Asahi, 6-chome by Daiso, now –“_

His phone clattered to the concrete beneath before he finished, though, as a bullet pierced his forearm. The colors of neon from the lamplight above smudged with the obscure gray surroundings as he sucked in a sharp breath. He landed on his knee as he doubled over on the ground. Rivulets of blood dyed his nails crimson. _Fuck,_ he couldn’t even describe how his wrist was scorching hot, being simultaneously torn apart and stitched together. Trembling, he struggled to grab the remaining daggers in his pocket, but another round of bullets penetrated his hand, his lower abdomen, his right thigh.

His brain whirred as he registered a boot nudging his stomach. It was cold. Snow had gathered on the surface. He couldn’t feel his legs.

“… _he… dead.”_

_“Leave… here.”_

_Dead?_

Sugawara twitched. _Oh, damn, am I actually dying?_ He could believe it. Only death could make him feel like this – empty, distant, yet so proximate to life. _I think I promised to buy Kageyama and Tsukishima lunch tomorrow. Ah, should’ve gone to the Garage Bar today._ Someone had mentioned how their life flashed before their eyes on the verge of death. Sugawara didn’t agree with that, as all he could ponder over were the promises he wouldn’t manage to keep and the people he should’ve bidden farewell to.

“ _Hey, can you hear me? Hey!”_

He sank into a deep slumber, the voice calling for him left unheard.

When he was awake, he was at a hospital.

He realized instantly with the telltale scent of disinfectant and the distinct waft of detergent from the sheets. There were stitch marks on his previously shot forearm, along with an IV drip. Hospital-green curtains circled his bed, and he was dressed in the standard white patient attire. _“Ow,”_ he winced as he attempted to sit upright. There were more stitches across his abdomen _. “My god.”_

_“Oh, you’re finally conscious!”_

A nurse with a clipboard beamed at him. _“Uh.”_

_“How are you feeling?”_

_I’d rather die again. “Fine, thank you. Um…”_

_“You were in a comatose state for two weeks. Oh, please wait, I’ll bring Doctor Suzuki for you.”_

Two weeks. No wonder his back ached like he’d been sleeping for three days straight.

According to Dr. Suzuki, he was brought in an ambulance on December 31st. His BP was dangerously low, and his heart stopped once when they pumped his chest; he apparently also lost liters of blood. “ _You suffered some fractures here and there, but those were minor compared to the four bullets in your body. We successfully removed them, of course. The cops searched for the culprits afterward, but they haven’t caught them yet._ ”

He froze. “ _The… cops.”_

“ _Ah, yes. The person who contacted the ambulance and accompanied you here was a cop. You were lucky, mister.”_

Yes – death would’ve been preferable to this.

He sips from his new cup. Even water tastes bitter.

Keishin, who was appointed Kumicho a week or so after Sugawara was released from the hospital, had stripped him of his position, authority, privileges, and practically everything he possessed as the shateigashira of the family. “ _Sorry, Sugawara. We know you aren’t at fault for this, but we have a reputation that cannot be sullied by some dogs. To have one of our core members saved by some street cop is…”_

 _“A disgrace,”_ Sugawara mumbled.

“ _Right. Not to mention, the lackeys are yammering on that you might’ve been conspiring with the dogs all along. It is rather suspicious that the cop didn’t arrest you; any dog in our territory at least knows your name. That’s probably why all these bullshit theories are brewing and whatnot.”_

Sugawara had nothing to say. Keishin sighed. “ _None of us who have stuck around for these past years give a shit about that. You’re not the type to betray the family. But our underlings don’t, and more importantly –“_

 _“The other organizations in the alliance.”_ He knew. He had also been in this industry for a decade.

_“Yeah. I hope you understand.”_

_“Of course, Kumicho.”_

It was practically execution without the dying part. A demoted shateigashira who couldn’t be trusted by the family had no use, no value as a member. He had battled for ages, through his adolescence and adulthood to attain that title. He earned it. He had _rightfully_ earned it.

Years of effort pulverized all because of one careless night, one thoughtless cop – a cursed _hunting dog_ of the government.

He is now neither a civilian nor a yakuza.

He is nothing.

“Fuck this,” dunking the water into his mouth, he coughs and wipes his chin. “Kenma, give me a beer,” Kenma isn’t there anymore. “Bleh.” He steals a rueful glimpse at his healing wound. The ovular bruise is an agonizing purple reminder of that evening, the worst New Year’s Eve of his lifetime.

“Seems like a nasty injury.”

If dark chocolate were a person, it’d probably sound like that. Mature, gravelly, with a lustrous tinge. Sugawara turns to the stranger, who –

Is a whole meal.

And it’s definitely not the alcohol.

 _Oh, man. Those jeans are unfair._ He peeks at his own thighs. _You’d have to spend twenty hours in the gym a day to be like that._ The man has dark trimmed hair, a neat cut, no sideburns, no goatee. He can probably swim in those bronze-brown eyes. The sleeves of his indigo sweatshirt are rolled up. There are tan lines on his wrist, where he most likely wears his watch.

Sugawara sniffs and realizes that the man was talking about the bullet wound. “Ah, yeah. It’s better than it looks.”

“Mm,” Kenma reappears, “ah, a beer, please. Heineken.” The bartender grabs a can and chilled glass from the fridge.

 _The question is, am I actually being hit on._ He hasn’t flirted since last February, and that had been a Valentine’s joke with Oikawa Tooru from Seijoh to piss off his… his boyfriend? His friend with benefits? After all these years, he can’t quite grasp Oikawa’s relationship with Iwaizumi. _Crap, what if all my one-liners are ancient trash?_ “I’ve never seen you around,” he says instead, because what the hell, he’s here to drown in his misery, not to fuck a hot guy.

Though – he is hot. Like, very.

“Yeah, I moved to Tokyo only recently. I’ve been… touring the city, I guess.”

“Touring?” Sugawara snorts, “You’re in the wrong neighborhood, I think. This isn’t where the Sky tree is.”

“Well, call it an adventure.” The male blinks at his water. “Had too much for the night already?”

“No, just the bartender being a petty bastard.” He emphasizes the ‘bastard’ for Kenma, who disregards him like he doesn’t exist. “I swear, he has a personal vendetta against me.”

A rumbly laughter. _Man, I forgot how awesome sex was. How did I survive without it?_ The root of his depression probably is his lack of sexual activity, not his demotion. “He seems like a considerate friend.” A considerate friend – well, that’s one way to phrase it. _But…_ Sugawara stirs the remnant water with his plastic straw, scanning the man more warily this time around. Something about him was familiar. No, that in itself isn’t strange; Sugawara knew half the inhabitants in Karasuno’s territory, so it’s natural that everyone looks like an acquaintance. What _is_ peculiar is that this man paraded into this bar, and that Sugawara didn’t recognize him immediately.

This bar, the Garage Bar, is managed by Tsukishima Akiteru and his wife, Tsukishima-Tanaka Saeko, and co-owned by Nekoma and Karasuno. While it _was_ open for civilians, the primary consumers who frequented the place were yakuza, which is an obvious consequence of having a bar run by two eminent yakuza organizations. Even Kenma, one of the bartenders, is a member of Nekoma. There is no yakuza, from lackey to upper echelon, that Sugawara Koushi is not aware of.

So – who exactly _is_ this man?

“Is there something on my face?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Sugawara feigns a smile, “Everything’s a little hazy. My bad.”

“Haha, yeah. That’s what happens.”

He hums. “Do you live around here?”

“Ah, not quite. My apartment’s at Arakawa.” _Arakawa._ Between Fukurodani and Seijoh, then. “You?”

“Oh, mine is a few blocks away.”

Flirting aside, he’s curious now. What was a person from Arakawa doing in Karasuno? He examines the other in detail. No visible tattoos, but there could be some on his back. No piercings, no accessories. He doesn’t seem like a smoker, but that’s just coming from a person who used to be one. _Is he from the west? No, but anyone from the west should at least know the Garage Bar is off-limits for them._ Besides, he doubts that any no-name west Tokyo lackey is courageous enough to barge into eastern lands. _If he’s not yakuza, then…_

“Have we met before?” Blurts out Sugawara, before he can stomp on the brakes. _Shit, that sounds like the most obsolete one-liner of the century. What comes after, ‘because I think I saw you in my dreams’?_ “It just, don’t take this the wrong way,” _what even is the wrong way,_ “but this doesn’t feel like… the first time.” _Someone shoot me._

Kenma is scowling at him scornfully. Sugawara grimaces.

To his surprise, the man replies, “We have.”

_Oh. I did not see that coming._

“Knew it,” he counters smoothly. “Uh, where?”

“Give it a shot.”

He licks his teeth. Sugawara prides in his ability to memorize faces and names upon initial encounter – he was in charge of Karasuno’s communications and conferences with other organizations for a reason. _Think, Koushi, think._ “… Have we met in the last ten years?”

“Yes.”

 _Not an elementary or middle school colleague, then._ Even he can’t remember all his classmates from a decade ago. There is a possibility of the guy belonging to a branch family, but it was Sugawara’s job to keep note of all the lackeys in branch families as well. Had he joined in the last three months, then? No, but it’d be pretty insulting to be so casually treated by a three-month-old lackey. He _is_ nothing, but his level of experience was, “Are you… from our field?”

The man’s hooded gaze is indecipherable. “No.”

 _Non-yakuza, confirmed._ Sugawara does not recall meeting anyone like this outside their world, at all. After minutes of contemplation, he resigns. “Okay, no clue.” _Unless he’s actually been making a move on me this entire time and I was being a dense ass. Nah, there’s no way my gaydar is that hopeless._ “Who are you?”

“Sawamura Daichi.”

_Sawamura Daichi._

Sugawara goes static.

His grip around the lukewarm cup tightens, and his throat constricts as the name echoes in his head, over, and over, and over again.

Sawamura Daichi.

( _“Uh, Doctor? If it isn’t a bother, do you remember the cop?”_

_The doctor tapped his chin with a ballpoint pen. “Sa… oh, yes. Detective Sawamura. Sawamura Daichi from Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.”)_

Something must’ve shifted drastically in him, because the easygoing, nonchalant grin is ripped off Sawamura’s face, supplanted with a solemner, colder stare. Sugawara blinks once, twice, then rapidly, as he nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers clawing at the marble cover of the bar. He swallows dry, and then shudders as he breathes in. A flood of emotions swarm him, but it doesn’t take more than half a second to realize that they’re merely a spectrum of fury, rage, ire.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He musters all his strength and patience to not shout, because they’re not the only customers.

Sawamura quirks a brow. “Do you really want to discuss matters right now?” The cop’s orbs dart around, “Up to you.”

 _This fucking dog,_ “Fine. Kenma,” Sugawara slams a random wad of cash on the table. The blonde jumps and almost drops his phone, and he feels bad for a moment. “That’s for both of us. See you later.” He hisses into Sawamura’s ear, “Follow me.”

He guides them to a deserted area behind the bar, where garbage incinerators from the 90’s were, though they weren’t functional anymore. _I’m craving for a cigarette._ He habitually sticks his fist into his pocket, but it’s vacant. Of course.

Sawamura stands on the opposite side, leaning against the brick wall, his arms folded over his broad chest. Sugawara bites on his tongue and struggles to pacify himself. It’s challenging. “Let’s get this conversation over with.” He begins through gritted teeth, “What, you here for an overdue ‘thank you’?”

“Not really. Although that would be nice; you were signed out of the hospital before we could question you.”

 _Ridiculous._ “Thank you, then. Please get the fuck out of my sight.”

There is no ‘you’re welcome’ that arrives in return. “According to the rumors, I had the impression that you were more… collected.”

“Kind of hard to be collected when I lost my sole source of income and the faith of my family because some asinine dog decided to poke his nose into where he’s not welcome.”

Sawamura scratches his ear, “In my defense, I didn’t know who you were.”

“You don’t know who I am, and you call yourself a detective?”

“I also did mention that I moved recently. It was my first day at the department when I found you. I was patrolling.”

“Should’ve studied.”

“Yes, I should’ve.”

“Listen,” he’s clinging to the final thread of his sanity. Despite his demeanor, he’s not as tranquil as others believe. “I don’t have business with a dog. Because of _you_ , I’ve already been,” _No. Makes me feel worse if I verbalize it. Don’t._ “Forget it. I don’t know what you need from me, but I refuse to interact with you further. Get lost.”

Sawamura doesn’t even budge. Well, he foresaw that already. “I wouldn’t normally associate with criminals either.” _Criminals,_ Sugawara rolls his eyes. “But this is… a special case. I’m here to suggest a deal.”

“A deal with a criminal, scandalous.” He taunts, “You don’t seem like the type of dog to engage in such deals with our kind.” If anything, Sawamura Daichi exudes the stereotypical police vibe – the stereotype that actually doesn’t exist in reality. The one that’s all for justice, for society, for people. Sugawara has never seen one, but he now thinks he has.

“I have my reasons. We’re desperate, too.” Sawamura huffs exasperatedly – everything about him protests that he doesn’t wish to coexist with the likes of Sugawara within a two-meter radius. “Since you’re _the_ Sugawara Koushi, I suppose you’re already aware of the unidentified drug organization which has been prancing uncontrollably around Tokyo.”

 _The dogs sniffed that out? Well, it is about time._ “I was wondering why you guys weren’t snooping here and there.”

“Unfortunately, we do have more limited networks, unlike the yakuza.” The detective pulls out his phone. “And that’s a problem, when this case involves more yakuza than the Metropolitan force ever had to handle after the 40’s.” Sugawara squints at him. “The higher ups are restricting the size of our team because they don’t want to publicize the case. There’s the possibility of driving the citizens into a state of panic if the reporters blow up the situation, making it appear more petrifying than it actually is.”

“I think you mean, ‘in order to sustain the honorable reputation of Tokyo’s MPDI, which has failed to detect this threat for months, resulting in hundreds and perhaps thousands of casualties.’” Both yakuza and police alike – that invisible reputation had the price of gold and diamonds. “Ah, please continue. I was talking to myself.”

The tension between them becomes weightier. “… Our chief investigator has made an exception for this case, and has permitted collaboration with the yakuza, as long as it’s achieved discreetly.”

“Hoh, a rarity.”

“He’s… well, a flexible person. Hence why I’m trying to negotiate with you.”

Sugawara rummages through his pockets again and rips the aluminum package of his extra-spicy mint gum. “And you assumed I’d dance along to that rhythm, like, ‘sure, let’s hold hands and bring justice back to this city’?” The minty tang numbs his tongue. “I’m a crow, detective. I serve my flock, nobody else.”

“As far as I know, your flock has abandoned you.”

“… If you’re here to bark nonsense, I’ll get back to my beer.”

“We need someone like you.” _This asshole, he’s ignoring me._ “Someone who’s neither yakuza nor civilian; someone who neither protects nor needs to be protected.”

He creases the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?”

“It’s easier to communicate with someone gray in general. And besides,” Sawamura tilts his head sideways, “this is a negotiation. There are definite benefits for you, too.”

The cogs in his brain crank. “You mean, if I work with you to apprehend this organization…”

“There’s evidence that only the police can obtain, as opposed to information the yakuza can obtain. If you act well enough and pretend that it was your effort, then wouldn’t that help you reclaim your title and credibility?” Sugawara clenches his fists. “We might be imposters, but we at least know that capturing this organization is crucial for the yakuza, too.”

There is undeniable truth in the policeman’s words.

_Damn it._

Sugawara Koushi has lost everything because of this man in front of him.

The same man is offering an opportunity to have it all back.

_But if I’m discovered…_

“Well, consider it.” Sawamura extends a card from his wallet towards him. “That’s my number. Contact me if you’re interested. There’s no deadline or anything, not until we arrest the ones responsible for this ruckus.”

He glowers at the printed digits, “… If we’re caught, what happens then?”

Sawamura shrugs. “Exactly what you imagine would happen.” With a parting wave, he vanishes after turning a corner. Sugawara peruses the name card.

****

**_[Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department_ **

**_Criminal Investigation Bureau, Division 1 – Senior Officer Sawamura Daichi]_ **

****

“A crow and a hunting dog?” He whispers under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” and tosses the card into the chilled, dusty incinerator.

He already has the number memorized, nonetheless.


	2. Tissue Paper Contracts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter was supposed to be out a heck earlier, but I spilled a drink over my laptop and life was sad (let's not talk about how my wallet suffered a lot). Consequently, I lost some major progress on the outline I had for this fic, so I'll need time to retype it; but it shouldn't delay the next update much. 
> 
> And wow, let me just say how surprised I was by the number of kudos, subscriptions, comments, and bookmarks! I'm so grateful that all of you are hyped about this new part of the series, whether you've read part 1 or not. I hope you stay till the end of the ride :D
> 
> Side note: I had a question about whether the main pairing of part 1, SakuAtsu will be in part 2. The answer is yes, but as DaiSuga is the main pairing of this part, SakuAtsu's screen time will most likely be minor in comparison. Part 1 actually wasn't even meant to be written, so... 
> 
> This chapter might be a little less exciting because it's mostly explaining and world building, but I hope you enjoy it!

“Good morning, Sawamura-san.”

“Ah, Futakuchi. Good morning.”

Futakuchi Kenji, junior officer of MPDI’s Criminal Investigation Bureau, Division 2, slumps over his desk. “There’s no one but us, huh? Must be nice. I want to find missing kittens and scold yankee high schoolers too, all that exciting shit.”

Sawamura chuckles as he turns on his laptop. “It’ll be a fulfilling experience to participate in cases of larger-scale as well, such as this one.”

“ _Too_ large-scale, don’t you agree? I’m a measly morsel of bread on the floor in between all you fancy croissants.”

“You’re a year younger than us on average – you and Terushima are both twenty-five.”

“You have to understand, Sawamura-san,” Futakuchi drawls, “it’s like school, where you’re stuffed in a classroom with thirty people born on the same year as you, and yet one kid can recite the goddamned periodic table while another one doesn’t even have an idea about what that is. A year might as well make all the difference.”

He chuckles. “Very humble. You were recruited because Kamasaki put in a recommendation, yes? He’s hot-tempered, but he has accurate judgment.” Futakuchi shrugs. “Have you gotten anything?”

“Nope. Clean slate. The yakuza in this city are sneaky, I mean it.”

“Mhm.”

The hinges of the door clang as the entrance flies open. “Hello, hello!” Daichi smiles wearily at the shrill greeting. Terushima Yuuji traipses in with his overly complex coffee order, something luxurious with java chips and chocolate syrup, he isn’t even certain. His blonde locks are gelled to stylish perfection. Nobody would reckon him to be a policeman, if he didn’t wear his badge. “How’re you folks doing this dreary morning?” It is a dreary morning, with all the clouds and vapor. “I bet you were working, like the nerdy ol’ pals y’all are.”

On beat, Futakuchi snaps, “We’re at work – it’s obvious that we’d be working. It’s not rocket science, Terushima-san.”

“You’re in a terrific mood as usual, Futakuchi.” He offers his coffee to him. “I think your body needs sugar.”

A sigh. “No, thank you.”

Despite his flamboyant image, Terushima is a senior officer and captain of MPDI’s Criminal Investigation Bureau Division 3, for one of their teams. He’s the youngest in his rank. “Man, you’re always compiling those data sheets, Futakuchi. Don’t they bore you?”

“No, they’re simply procedural.”

Sawamura catches how Terushima mouths ‘procedural’ and mutes his snort. They have stellar teamwork.

“Oh, everyone’s present. Magnificent.”

They all turn and bow or nod to the man striding in. “Inspector, good morning.”

He’s Inspector Kambe Daisuke, the leader of their team, or more specifically, for this case.

A moment of irrelevant trivia: the Kambe Group is one of the wealthiest business empires in Japan, even the world. Kambe Bank, Kambe Pharmaceutical, Kambe Communications, Kambe Entertainment – yes, they are all under the Kambe conglomerate.

And yes, Kambe Daisuke’s ‘Kambe’ is the identical Kambe.

It explains how Kambe’s attire – his tuxedo, his watch, his loafers, his briefcase – is costlier than his yearly spending. But anyway.

“To refresh our minds, we’ll run through what we have acquired so far.” Kambe unruffles his hair tiredly, “No matter how diminutive it is.” ‘Nice vocab,’ Terushima interjects from his desk. “Look at the screen.” Turning on the projector, Kambe rotates in his chair with the remote. A PowerPoint slide pops up, the heading bolded, ‘Tokyo, Adollium Kidnapping Case.’ “Futakuchi, if you will.”

Futakuchi, being the only junior officer on the team, drags himself over to the screen. “We’ll be debriefing what we have on this case as of March 11th, 2021. Last December 14th, we arrested Wakamatsu Rengai, a juvenile delinquent, seventeen years old, for repeated larceny incidents. During the interrogation, he confessed that he had a partner in crime – his girlfriend, Iwano Tsue, also seventeen. She was dismissed from her orphanage and co-habiting with her boyfriend. Wakamatsu Rengai reported that she had been missing for approximately three weeks, since mid-November, and that she was on drugs – at least, according to him.” Next slide. “Amongst her belongings, she had a stray pill in the pockets of her skirt. After chemical content analysis and comparison, the National Forensic Service department confirmed that it matched that of adollium, an experimental substance created by Kambe Pharmaceutical eighteen years ago.”

Sawamura taps his finger on the keys of his laptop. Kambe Pharmaceutical, adollium.

“We conducted a district-wide and city-wide search for Iwano Tsue. She wasn’t found and is officially listed to be missing in action. Inspector Kambe connected her disappearance to the unsolved mass murder case, the Kambe Pharmaceutical murder case from eighteen years ago, where twenty-three researchers who developed and maintained adollium in the laboratory were killed overnight. When we contacted other MPDI departments throughout Tokyo, we noticed that there has been a steady spike of suspected kidnappings or disappearances since 2009. These only include those that were reported to the police.” A line graph with a positive slope is presented on the slide. “We’re hypothesizing that the same group of people responsible for the murders eighteen years ago are the culprits of this case, as the recipe for adollium and a significant amount of adollium samples were robbed that night, and that they’d be affiliated with the yakuza, based on their influence.”

“Thank you, Futakuchi.” Kambe juts his chin at Sawamura. The latter pulls out his notebook as well.

“I was reassigned to Tokyo’s MPDI once the case commenced. My colleague, Hoshiumi Kourai, and his partner, Hirugami Sachirou have been investigating undercover for the past three years, as members of the organization, Kamomedai, also a branch family of Inarizaki, one of the seven major yakuza organizations in Tokyo. Hoshiumi was sent to Inarizaki for a mission, and it turned out that our hypothesis was correct – the kidnappings and adollium are related. The method seems to be that they persuade women of low socioeconomic status and shallow social relationships into buying drugs and wait for the ideal moment to kidnap them.”

“Dirty motherfuckers,” there’s a venomous edge to Terushima’s tone. “Clever, though. People are always swarming in and out of this damned metropolis, especially in those neighborhoods – they probably assume the same thing for the women. Hence, the enormous gap between the actual number of those gone and the reported incidents.”

“Precisely.” Daichi nods, “According to Hoshiumi, there is a high chance that Inarizaki can be dropped from the list of prospective suspects. They conducted a mission to pinpoint the dealers distributing the drugs around their territory.”

Terushima yawns, “Which one’s Inarizaki, again?”

“The one with the Miya twins,” Futakuchi answers.

“Ah, them. Was Miya Atsumu the one we almost detained for murder, when he was nineteen or something?”

“Yes, but we couldn’t. Lack of evidence.”

“Right, right. Go on.”

“We’ve been attempting to track the dealers as well, since January. But…” Sawamura clucks his tongue, “the yakuza are becoming cautious of our presence in their lands.”

Kambe slumps back on his chair, both arms on the armrests. “It’s not an exaggeration to proclaim that the yakuza have greater authority over this city than the police force. Of course, we have the law on our side, but it’s an undeniable truth that they’re not easily penetrable. While Karasuno used to be one of the laxer families, since New Year’s Eve, that has transformed, too.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Daichi says, but Kambe waves it off coolly.

“No, I’m not blaming you, Officer Sawamura. It’s challenging either way. Which is why I emphasized,” The man sharpens his gaze, “I permit you to take drastic measures, however you’d like to interpret that. Nothing some cash and sweet-talking can accomplish.”

He glances at his phone.

( _“I’m a crow, detective. I serve my flock, nobody else.”_ )

“That’s bold,” Terushima hums, one leg crossed over the other, “you’re against the seven families, Inspector. That means the Miya twins, Kuroo, Oikawa… and I forget. Lots of scary guys, y’know?”

“Are they?” Kambe doesn’t appear affected in the slightest. “I’m not interested.” The blonde laughs at that. “Well, I must attend another conference. I wish you all luck.”

Futakuchi excuses himself a minute later, slipping out as he calls someone. That leaves he and Terushima in the office. Terushima’s quiet for a while, typing on his laptop and scrolling through some pages. Then, “You’re sure tough, Sawamura-san.”

“Hm?”

“I wouldn’t have joined this case if I were you.” Terushima’s wearing a grave expression for once. Daichi believes it’s his first time witnessing it. “Isn’t it, I dunno… shitty? In all versions of that word possible. With what happened eighteen years ago, I mean… it was fucked up.”

(“ _Daichi, listen to me, honey. Don’t panic, just listen…”_ )

He cups his chin with his palm. “I guess. I didn’t have much of an alternative – when your boss tells you to transfer, you transfer. I live on my paycheck.”

“Mm,” Terushima spins once, twice. “Yeah, I would’ve quit. Seems too twisted for me. I get you, though. You’re cool. I respect you for choosing to become a part of this team.”

“Like I said, not much of a choice. But thanks.”

“Nah, don’t mind it. Also, care to tell Futakuchi that I had to, hm, dash for a smoke? Yeah, that’s good enough. A smoke.” Terushima winks at him, and he shakes his head with a relenting smile.

“I shouldn’t condone a coworker slacking off, but, well. Alright.”

“Slacking off, what an accusation, Sawamura-san!” Terushima gasps, “I swear, it’s a smoke break.” And he skips out of the room, just like that.

Over his three months at Division 1, specifically in the adollium case team (because ‘Tokyo Adollium Kidnapping Case’ is a mouthful), one of the highlights of the day has been watching Futakuchi and Terushima bite each other’s dicks off. It’s even more hilarious, considering that Futakuchi wasn’t typically a diligent worker either, but because Terushima was even less diligent than he was, the altercations arose. They make quite a pair, albeit the fact that they haven’t been together in any case prior to his one.

Suddenly his phone buzzes – he jumps, startled. Upon scanning the caller ID, he relaxes. “Hey, grandma.”

“ _Daichi? Geez, what have I toldja about calling us? Even if you text me, the letters are tiny, how do you expect me to read any of ‘em?”_

“Sorry, sorry. I’ve been occupied with the current case.”

“ _You’re always like that. Have you received the pickled radish? It’s your favorite.”_

“I did, thanks, grandma. How’re your joints?” Futakuchi reenters, and blinks at Terushima’s vacant seat. Daichi gestures with his hand, pretending to blow a puff of smoke. A vein protrudes from the junior officer’s forehead.

_“Oh, you know. Same as always. Depends on the weather.”_

“How’s grandpa?”

“ _Playing shogi alone on the porch – somedays, I am convinced he will die there.”_

He chortles at that. “Yeah,” right then, his phone vibrates. A message from an unknown number. “Sorry, grandma, just a sec.”

His pupils dilate.

[ ** _Unknown:_ _This is Sugawara Koushi. Where do you want to meet?_** ]

_“Daichi?”_

“Uh, yeah, um. Grandma, I think I gotta go. I love you, and pass on my regards to grandpa too, yeah?”

“ _Alright, sweetheart. We love you too.”_

He rapidly replies, ‘ _There’s a relatively deserted café behind Takase Mall. How about seven?’_

[ ** _Unknown: Alright._** ]

Inhale, exhale.

_Finally, we’re getting somewhere._

###

Sugawara Koushi leers at Sawamura’s selection of the shopping mall. _How ordinary,_ but ordinary is preferable, as there is no yakuza that’d be loitering about a mall seven in the evening. Even he doesn’t remember the last time he went inside a department store; it might’ve been when he was in middle school. His clothes were purchased by lackeys who scurried out to flea markets and backstreet “bazaars” – unauthorized groups of merchants who survived off their daily profits by selling food, bits of Hawaiian shirts and tiger-print pants, etc. His morning coffee was brewed by Hinata at the Garage Bar, and his midnight beer by Kenma. There were plenty of food stalls and trucks around town, and he rewatched movies when they were televised during Christmas specials or Golden week events.

 _Let’s see, let’s see…_ he hunts for clothes which communicate, “duh, I’m a civilian too,” in his wardrobe. It’s an almost herculean task, with the sheer amount of gray, blue, black suits he possesses, along with red and neon green Hawaiian shirts and bloodied flannels he forgot to discard months ago. He manages to find a relatively clean hoodie and torn jeans from – eight years ago. _Maybe I should go shopping. This is horrid._

Takase Mall is a fifteen-minute stroll from his flat. Throwing over his cap, Sugawara wears a mask and keeps his eyes on the ground. _There shouldn’t be anyone around now, but just in case._

On the exterior, Tokyo is a peaceful, even mesmerizing city. That’s the illusion you’ll view at Tokyo Tower, with the twinkling lights, shimmering roads, a palette of colors painting the surface, humans as minuscule as specs of dust. _A cruel joke,_ he thinks. This second, there is a lackey who’s gotten their skull bashed into the pavement for disobeying a superior. There is a homeless kid stealing from gullible foreigners. There is a drunk woman beating her daughter with a shattered wine bottle. There are hordes of teenagers who light stray dogs on fire, for pure, twisted entertainment.

Koushi knows, because he’s seen all that happen.

“Uwah,” he gawks at the crowd milling around the mall – high school girls with their adorable phone cases, couples with linked arms, families of five and their squealing kids – “isn’t today a weekday?” _Ah, no, café, café… where’s the café…_ he squeezes through the lump of people. “Must be that one.”

 _Hikari Coffee,_ the fluorescent sign flashes, the kanji and katakana characters written in some flourish font. There really are only two or three customers, aside from himself.

“Hello, can I take your order, sir?”

“Ah, yes, uh… an iced americano, the smallest size you have.”

“That would be 800 yen!”

He takes a seat in the corner booth, farthest from the windows. He’s twenty minutes early. _Damn it._ The waitress serves him his coffee, so he lounges around with his phone and beverage.

“Oh, you’re punctual, huh.”

When he glares upward, there is Sawamura Daichi, once again in casual attire. “I’ll order a drink. Give me three.” His jacket slides to the chair across Koushi. He returns after placing his order. “I didn’t think you’d respond so fast, especially after your rather resolved crow and hunting dog metaphor tirade.”

“Don’t misunderstand. I’m here for more elaborate details than, ‘hey, let’s cooperate.’” He shoves his coffee aside. “You really believe that I’d be hooked by some vague as hell offers? You have to be more specific than ‘there will be benefits for you.’”

“Thought so. The wording was intentionally vague.”

“Hah?”

“A psychological theory in practice. The best way to lure in your target is to cloud their judgment and heighten their suspicion simultaneously.” The cop shrugs. _Fuck, I played right into his hands._ “Didn’t think it’d succeed, but I’m glad it did. And yes, it does get more specific than that.”

“You’re a cop and you majored in psychology?”

“No, it’s a quote from a book; ‘people who trod through the mist are not entranced by the obscure mist itself, but what lies beyond.’”

 _Heh._ “Well, you’ll have to clarify some things. How exactly will I be able to disguise the information obtained by the police as something _I_ found? I’m an informant, but I’m not a tech-savvy one, unlike Shirabu Kenjirou from Shiratorizawa, Akaashi Keiji from Fukurodani, or those beasts from Nohebi. Ah, I doubt you’ve heard of those names.”

“I know Akaashi Keiji and Nohebi.”

“Sure. I reap information about this city from other yakuza within the alliance and the townspeople. If I were an adroit hacker, like Akaashi, then I could bluff that that’s how I got everything, but I’m not. There’s no reward whatsoever if I’m beheaded for treason before I even reclaim my position, you know?”

Sawamura removes another card from his wallet. ‘Hirugami Sachirou.’ “He’s an undercover agent currently at –“

“Kamomedai.” He finishes, “A branch family of Inarizaki… I see. I’m assuming Hoshiumi Kourai is with you guys too, then?”

“What made you reach that conclusion?”

Koushi massages his temples. _Man, I’m sleepy._ “Hoshiumi Kourai hasn’t been promoted in Kamomedai for a couple years, same goes for Hirugami Sachirou. I looked into it, and it didn’t seem like Kamomedai’s Kumicho was withholding his promotion. It’s another matter if they aren’t talented, but they are. One foremost advantage of being a lackey, though, is that you have more freedom from the organization hierarchy itself – nobody gives a damn if you go crazy in fights every now and then, because you’re basically a mob character. Someone told me that he was one of those bloodthirsty fighters, so I thought… well, it makes sense, now. Being a lackey means you can fake your identity and death facilely.”

“Mm,” nods Sawamura, “there’s more to it. He was initially assigned to Yukigaoka.”

“Yukigaoka? But that’s –“

“Karasuno’s branch family. He was recruited as a lackey and a spy.”

“But how have I never –“

“I wouldn’t know. My point is that, it doesn’t seem like betraying the organization if you are able to discuss this with Yukigaoka’s Kumicho and pretend like the information I’ve provided is something Hoshiumi was able to gain from the west, then you won’t be accused as a traitor.”

“Sounds easy when you say it like that,” Sugawara groans. “What about Hirugami? Is he a spy, too?”

“No, Hoshiumi’s team in Miyagi determined the task to be too dangerous to be performed alone, so they had Hirugami join him at Kamomedai.”

“Okay,” he organizes the details mentally. “Okay, I get it. So, Hoshiumi Kourai is a cop who was sent to Yukigaoka to be an undercover agent but was instead redelegated to be a spy for Yukigaoka at Kamomedai. Hirugami Sachirou is also an undercover agent at Kamomedai. If I can threaten Yukigaoka’s Kumicho about the unpermitted spy missions and act as if the garnered evidence was Hoshiumi’s work, then…”

“You can be a crow again.”

“What an optimistic strategy,” _too optimistic._ “One stumble, and I’m done for.”

“There’s no guarantee that you’ll ever be readmitted into the organization as an active member otherwise, though. You were laid off indefinitely, weren’t you?”

“Thanks to someone saving my ass, yes.”

“You’re welcome.”

 _He’s a menace._ “… Fine. I’ll,” _no, really? Koushi, reconsider this. A yakuza collaborating with a dog is,_ “I’ll do it.”

A sigh of relief. “That’d be great.”

Sugawara scrutinizes the detective, another mouthful of coffee sloshing between his teeth. _No aggressive speeches, an eerily monotonous voice… he’s a dog who hasn’t dealt with our kind._ “Am I the first yakuza you ever met in this city?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just because. You don’t have to answer.”

“No, you’re correct. It’s not something to hide.”

“Hm…” _Well, it’s none of my business._ “Anyhow, what should I do, then? I’ll let you know that although I might fit into your category of ‘gray,’ I’m being shunned by the majority of eastern yakuza families after the rumors about my demotion proliferated. It wouldn’t be incredibly wise to have me scavenging about for information.”

“Ah, no. We need a… mediator. Hoshiumi and Hirugami are behaving as the police’s network into the yakuza industry, but they’re primarily active in the west. Not to mention, those two are not members of the team working on this case. It’s also an issue if any other policemen not on the team catch on that we’re partners, from hereon. As aforementioned, our chief inspector is… well, he’s not fussy about obeying policies and traditions and whatnot.”

“I’d love to have a conversation with him sometime.” He had to be a shrewd individual – bribing yakuza with money was never the perfect solution, especially for cops. This kind of negotiation didn’t leave printable records. “So, the case? What is it? Hopefully, you have more than ‘drugs’ readied.”

Sawamura huffs. “The drug has been identified to be adollium. Does it ring a bell?”

Adollium… adollium.

(“ _… twenty-three researchers were shot. In the process of formulating a new antibiotic drug, they created a substance later labeled ‘adollium’…”_ )

He snaps his fingers. “Yeah, it does. Dang, that’s when I was… eight? Nine? I don’t remember a whole lot. It caused quite a commotion, didn’t it? It wasn’t a serial murder case, but a mass-murder.”

“Right. Officially, it’s referred as the Kambe Pharmaceutical Mass-Murder Case, and the MPDI left it unsolved two years later. Adollium was stolen by the culprits. We are predicting that the culprits then are currently the leaders of this underground organization.”

“That’s fair. Kambe – the moguls, yes? The Kambe Group.”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

“Your job is to explicate thoroughly the key figures of the yakuza alliance, as well as other characteristics of each organization – specifics only those in the industry would know.”

“Understood.”

“Ah, also,” Sawamura pats his pockets, and then glances around their table. He tugs at a piece of tissue from the box, and the pen for the customers to write their reviews on the ‘please rate our café’ questionnaires. “We’ll have to make some rules prior to launching this partnership.”

Koushi cackles at that. “A contract? Why, we might as well be filming a K-drama.”

Sawamura is nonchalant. “One, you can’t disclose to anyone else that we are working together. It wouldn’t end prettily for both of us. Two, let’s not meet during the afternoon. Too many people, too sunny. Oh, and three, reply to messages as soon as possible.”

“And four, we must not fall in love, right?”

The detective snorts. “You must like watching those dramas.”

“They grow on you; what else am I supposed to do when I’m a jobless sloth with no college degree, more or less a high school diploma?”

Sawamura stands. “Well, I have additional files I have to skim through for the evening. I’ll text you another time and location when we have to meet.”

“Am I expected to keep this?” Sugawara flaps the tissue contract back and forth.

“If you want to. I only wrote them down because it helps me memorize them better.”

He peeks at the tissue again, blue ink scrawled over it. With a smirk, he signs his name as well as Sawamura’s underneath, folds it, and slips it into his jeans.

_( **Tissue Paper Contract:**_

  1. **_All information traded between the parties remains confidential._**
  2. **_No afternoon meetings._**
  3. **_Reply ASAP._**



**_Date signed – March 11 th, 2021_ **

**_Sugawara Koushi, Sawamura Daichi_ ** _)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who remember Iwano Tsue from part 1, I applaud your memory.


	3. The Cat Bleeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm getting busy and the semester has barely started. I also lost all my progress on this chapter so I had to write it all over again two days ago. Life happens. 
> 
> I've noticed that part 1 has been getting a lot of attention - I don't know whether due to this story gaining more viewers, but I wanted to express my thanks! I'm glad that many of you seem to be enjoying the fic. Let's quickly move on to this update, then!

When he was sixteen, he caught a boy sitting on a ledge, his legs dangling and swaying like a pendulum, the upper half of his body naked, the battered fabric of his shorts loosely hugging his joints. They were on the twenty-second floor of the establishment, which was technically a hotel construction site. The project was halted due to financial discrepancies between the companies involved, and was now a haunted, desolate structure in the hoods of Tokyo.

Koushi was there for a smoke. He got the habit from his senior, who was also his mentor. The lackeys were not permitted to smoke with their superiors.

The boy was staring off into space, somewhere between the city, the horizon, and the sky. The sky was an opaque gray that noon, a thick quilt of clouds overhead, moisture heavy in the atmosphere. He was simply there, doing nothing.

 _Haven’t seen him around,_ he thought, as he stood there by the staircase. After seconds of contemplation, he approached the ledge with his cig. “Hey,” he said, propping his elbows on the fence. It wasn’t a high one; it came up to his ribs, perhaps. “What’re you doing here?”

The kid swiveled around to face him. He had cobalt blue irises and an unkempt mop of dark hair. Upon closer inspection, he had an infected gash which spanned the base of his foot to his calf. “You should go to the hospital for that. It isn’t healthy.”

“I don’t care.”

 _A runaway? He’s from the slums, isn’t he?_ “If it’s about the cost, I have some pocket money. Not much, but.”

“Fuck off.”

Koushi snorted. “Has anyone ever done that because you told them to?”

The boy clucked his tongue. Negative, then. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Humans are inherently social, you know,” he went on. “And you didn’t answer my previous question. Why’re you here? Admiring the scenery? No offense, but there’s not much to see here.” It was true. There was a narrow road beneath, an aggregation of edifices around them, and that was about it. Besides, the sky was gray. Even the weather was disgruntling.

There was silence. Then, “to die.”

He went static at that and dropped his lighter; he was about to light his cigarette. “What?”

“I’m here to die.” It was said at the identical level of indifference as ‘I like dogs,’ or ‘I ate scrambled eggs for breakfast.’ ‘I’m here to die.’ “I was watching when there’d be no one on the road. Or nobody in general. Can’t accidentally squash a person while trying.” Quite thoughtful, too.

“Huh,” he processed the confession. “You… shouldn’t do that.” In retrospect, that was a rather unintelligent response to a suicide announcement. But he was sixteen, and nobody in his life had been so blunt about their death, or their plans about it.

“It’s my life.”

“Sure,” Koushi nodded, “but it won’t be when you die.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

A gush of wind swept his bangs. “My mom,” the boy murmured, “my mom hung herself last Wednesday.” A fuzzy silhouette of a woman with a rope around her swollen neck filled Koushi’s head. He lit his cigarette and sucked in an acrid cloud of nicotine. His mother, huh. “I didn’t think she would.”

( _“Koushi, I wasn’t destined to live like this, I wasn’t, I wasn’t…”)_

“You can’t be too sure about anything, anyone.” A faint railway of smoke traveled towards the matching gray station in the sky above. “Even if you’re linked by blood.”

“Well, yes. I know that.” There was something more, something too detached for a child who lost his mother a week ago. But then again, Sugawara didn’t cry at his mom’s funeral, either – or a year after. “She was… a person who desperately fought to survive. To not be devoured. Always. I thought she had a reason. I thought that if I stayed, I’d be able to discover what that was.”

The driving force of life – Koushi had ruminated on it as well. He didn’t have a concrete answer when he was ten, and not when he was sixteen. He was dubious that he’d have one in ten years. “Why do you think she struggled to live for years, then?”

“I’m not sure. It probably wasn’t worthwhile if she ended up killing herself.”

“You shouldn’t make rash assumptions about another person’s life. It can be a weapon.”

A sardonic huff. “Words are words.” He flitted at the sticky, red-white wound on the younger’s leg. “Knives hurt. And rocks. Bricks, shattered cement blocks.”

“There’ll be a day where you’ll understand what I mean.”

“You don’t look much older than me.”

He laughed. “Right. I’m sixteen.”

“Two years, then.”

“Fourteen, eh?” He sniffed. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“Sugawara Koushi.”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Bleh, that’s cheating!” Chortling, though, he gazed at the landscape as well. “My mom killed herself two years ago, too.” The boy snapped towards him. “She wasn’t desperate, per se. She was… she wasn’t happy, that I’m certain. She was constantly drinking or crying, or both. I don’t know, I wasn’t shocked when she died. Maybe I should’ve been, but I wasn’t.” He smiled. “So, what’s your name?”

“…Kageyama. Kageyama Tobio.”

Tobio. A flying hero.

“Tobio,” he articulated, “I like that.” There was a pleasant ring to it. Kageyama shrugged. “Say, Tobio, come with me – to Karasuno.”

“Karasuno? That’s one of the seven major organizations.”

“The boss is a rather strange man. He’d take you in.”

Kageyama’s lips thinned into a line. “I’m sick of this city.”

Koushi’s expression softened. “Just one day, then. Just one day. After that, you can choose what to do.”

“One day.”

“Right. One day.”

Kageyama Tobio stayed for another ten years.

_I suppose there were those days, too._

Sugawara reminisces, while chewing on a chili-flavored bubblegum. In all honesty, he had been extremely paranoid; he checked on Kageyama each night, with a light-hearted, ‘ _so, what about tomorrow? You leaving?_ ’ When Kageyama shook his head, he hoped his relief wasn’t too telltale with how he patted the boy’s back and exclaimed, ‘ _is that so, is that so!_ ’

Seven years and four months later, he forgot to ask. Sugawara can remember that evening better than yesterday. It was eight-twenty-seven. He was at the local Family Mart, to buy a beer for himself and some of his superiors. His coin purse dropped from his pockets and the coins jangled as they scattered across the floor. “ _I’m so sorry, I’ll pick them up,”_ his knees bent, and then it crossed him. He burst out of the store then, shouting at the part-timer that he’d be back. As a side note, he did not, and his coins were forever lost, along with his beer.

Kageyama was at the gym of the headquarters, serving a volleyball over the net. It was his hobby. And for a hobby, he was good at it. Crazy good. At pro-level, though he had never gone to watch a professional volleyball game. When Kageyama saw him at the double doors, panting, drenched in sweat, he served one more time. The ball was in. A definite no-touch ace.

“ _You don’t have to ask anymore.”_ He said, and Koushi blinked, bewildered. “ _I’ll stay. Not just tomorrow, but after that, too.”_

“ _Oh.”_ It was as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders – like Atlas, or whoever that giant carrying the universe in Greek mythology was. “ _I see. Volleyball practice?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Where’s Hinata?”_

_“Dashed to piss.”_

_“Of course. Have fun.”_

_“Thank you.”_

That night, he cried.

 _How embarrassing._ He didn’t shed a tear at his mother’s funeral, or when his parents divorced. But, well. Kageyama wasn’t his mother. Tobio was Tobio. The kid who almost jumped from a building at the age of fourteen, without batting an eyelash. Seven years later, that same kid promised the existence of his future. Sugawara had been at the epicenter of that evolvement.

He’s both proud as much as he is honored.

All that to say, he hasn’t contacted Kageyama since his demotion.

It was purposeful and deliberate. He couldn’t afford to jeopardize Tobio’s career, spreading his sullied reputation. Kageyama had constructed a title for himself too. Amongst his generation, he is practically a beast – a voracious crow to rival Miya Atsumu of the west and Oikawa Tooru of the east, both renowned for their prowess and charisma.

So – Sugawara freezes when they bump into each other in the back alleys.

Kageyama appears to be healthy and fine as usual. He must’ve had a haircut recently, because his unruly cowlicks are nowhere to be seen, and he has a silver crescent moon hoop dangling from his earlobe – the earlobe that was bleeding out when Koushi first met him. It was a gift from Hinata, apparently. Two lackeys who Sugawara doesn’t recognize are by his side. “Suga-san.” Tobio nods.

“Hey, Tobio.” _Shit. I was out for some air._ “Patrolling?”

“Yes. Almost done.”

The foreign cordialness is rather chilling to the bone. “Yeah? I wish you luck.” Kageyama nods tersely, and marches past him with the lackeys. It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t, really. But it is quite… disheartening. _How old am I, twelve? Getting sore over this kind of treatment – it’s nothing._ He stands there, stretching his palm. _I’m not fit for this job, aren’t I?_

He’s too far down the path to regret it.

A step forward, and then another – he’s a meter from the corner, when a hand wraps around his wrist. Instinctually, Sugawara twists and lashes out his blade until, “Suga-san.” Kageyama. It’s Kageyama. “Sorry. I had to create a plausible excuse.”

Stunned, Sugawara asks, “Excuse for what?”

“To be separated from them. Fuck, this is why I told the Kumicho that I can’t mentor for jack. I’m not you, he should get that.” Kageyama spits, and then straightens his back. “How were you?”

 _Crap._ Sugawara breathes in, _crap, I’m so touched. I feel like a parent who’s just seen their baby enter grade school. This is ridiculous._ “Jobless. Alright, I guess. You sure you don’t have to get to those lackeys? I wouldn’t be offended or anything.” _Not offended, that is._

Kageyama loosens his tie. “I can’t debilitate Tanaka-san and Nishinoya-san’s efforts. They’re contending against the other higher-ups to have you in the family as shateigashira. If some no-name lackeys ruin that chance, they’d chomp my head off.”

Tanaka and Nishinoya – they were always so dependable. “Yeah? I’m grateful.” Realistically speaking, there was absolutely no way those senile geezers would alter their decision. They’ve always been so orthodox, so stubborn about these traditional yakuza-cop relations. “How’s everyone?”

“Normal. Ennoshita-san is filling in your gap, but,” Kageyama fiddles with his tie, “It wasn’t a smooth transition, after all. Our authorities are idiots, but we communicated everything with other organizations through you as our envoy and spokesperson. You had the faith of the alliance. It’s not an easy position to replace in such a short period of time.”

“Can’t help it, right? I don’t have that trust anymore.”

Three seconds without conversation, and then, “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” Frowns Kageyama.

Sugawara hums. “It’s only logical. I’m a yakuza that was rescued by a dog.”

“Anyone who has been in the family these past couple of years know that Karasuno only managed to stick together because of you when former Kumicho Ikkei suffered a seizure and was out of commission for five months, Suga-san.” Kageyama argues, “Other families are aware, too. The alliance needs you. You deserve to remain on the field – even if some dog licked your ankle.”

“On the court, you mean?” He sniggers, and Kageyama grunts.

“Field or court, doesn’t matter. You haven’t lost anything, Suga-san.”

_You haven’t lost anything._

_Not yet, perhaps._

“Do you trust me, Tobio?”

Somewhere on that leg, there is the scar from that sloppily treated gash. It’s now under those neatly ironed dress pants. “I wouldn’t even be here without you.” Kageyama says matter-of-factly, “Don’t go around asking dumb questions.”

“Come on, what’s so terrible about it?”

“You’re better than that.” With an exhale, the other turns away. “Also, I wasn’t lying when I said the alliance needs you. It’s… nothing more than a hunch, but I feel like there’ll be a council soon.”

“A council?” The East Tokyo Alliance Council – it only occurred during dire emergencies or, “You’re kidding. We haven’t had a council since Seijoh’s downsizing, and that was ages ago, before Oikawa was promoted.”

Kageyama massages his temples. “I’m not. Have you heard anything from Kenma-san?”

“Kenma? What about him?”

“It’s not about him,” he corrects, “Kuroo Tetsurou was taken out.”

_Kuroo Tetsurou._

_Kuroo Tetsurou?_

“That’s got to be a joke,” Sugawara rubs the crane of his neck anxiously, “Kuroo Tetsurou the undefeated – taken out? Tobio, that monster came out of a brawl against a hundred men unscathed and victorious – _alone_ – when he was a high schooler. Combat is his second nature; he does it like breathing. Not even Bokuto from Fukurodani or Oikawa from Seijoh can eliminate him,” _Unless._ If there’s an individual who has the upper hand against Kuroo of the east, that is –

Ushijima Wakatoshi from the west.

A yakuza war.

“Oh my god.” He groans, “This can’t be.”

“Nothing is set in stone concurrently. He could’ve been attacked by more than one person, and chances are that it’s an organization which has a grudge against Nekoma or Kuroo-san.”

Sugawara sighs. “He’s not…”

“He’s not dead. I went to their territory to affirm it; Inuoka says he’s in critical condition. Four gunshot wounds, and one hit a vital organ. He’s undergoing surgery at Fukurodani.”

(“… _he… dead.”_

_“Leave… here.”)_

He goes rigid at the memory. Four rounds. An ambush. _No, it can be a coincidence. Don’t jump to conclusions._

“When you said that the alliance needs me…”

“The Kumichos have reached a consensus that you’ll be Karasuno’s representative, along with Asahi-san and the Kumicho. It seems like Bokuto-san and Oikawa-san wanted you there instead of Ennoshita-san.”

A snort. “They’re self-centered, aren’t they?”

“You’re the one who knows Karasuno inside-out. Three months don’t affect that.”

“That’s comforting.” A council – a council. A yakuza war, “I’ll be there, if you guys desire so.”

Tobio stares at him. “It’s not about desire – it’s not so trivial an emotion. It’s more like… an axiom, isn’t it?” Sugawara furrows his brows, confuddled. “If there’s anyone who must be out there as a crow, it’s you.” Koushi reiterates that sentence in his head. _If there’s anyone who must be out there as a crow, it’s you._ “At least, all of us think that. Even Tsukishima.”

Even Tsukishima; Sugawara laughs at that addition. “Really, Tsukishima, huh?”

A crow.

There’s a flock of crows on the power lines draped around the neighborhood. A feather descends to the ground.

He’s a crow.

“I suppose I’ll have to live up to your expectations, then.”

He messages Kenma, but the latter doesn’t respond. It’s not Kenma’s shift that dinner rush, and so Koushi waits for Sawamura’s text. One arrives around five, with a location and time. Ishi Park, eight-thirty.

Sawamura is there before him today, out of his uniform. Sugawara sits beside him on the bench. “A park is a bit of a romantic choice to discuss such matters, don’t you agree?”

“No, I do not.”

“Why? We have candles,” Sugawara points at the flickering orange lamps, “roses,” at the untended shrubs and bushes, “a bed,” at the hard, pinewood bench, “and music.” There’s a public announcement from the management office that the park closes at ten. ‘ _We repeat, Ishi Park is scheduled to…’_ “And your date.”

The cop looks at him meaningfully. “You’re the polar opposite of what my colleagues told me.”

“What did they say?”

“That you’re the least festive, most tolerable one out there.”

“Touché.”

“You’re not like that at all.”

“Affronting.” Sugawara slings his arms over the bench, “I’m the epitome of amicability.”

“What test score did you receive on your Japanese Language exam when you were in school?”

“Hey, my English scores were nearly perfect.”

“Good for you.”

Koushi rolls his eyes. “So, are you advancing in your investigations or what?”

“Unfortunately, no. We’ve been scouring the east and west, but we have restrictions. The upper echelon is more sensitive about how the media will act up once this case is publicized and broadcasted over the nation, so we have to keep low. There’s only so much a team of four can do in twenty-four hours without the assistance of other teams in the division.”

“Sounds like an incredibly extensive and elaborate excuse for getting nothing done.”

“And you? What do you have?” Sawamura doesn’t seem irked by his attempt to rile him, even slightly.

“Kuroo Tetsurou of Nekoma was hospitalized last night and is in critical condition.” Just passing on the news makes him nauseous.

The policeman hums noncommittally, “And that’s huge, I’m guessing?”

“’ _Huge’_?” _This is why talking to someone out of the industry is stressful,_ “It’s a catastrophe. Do you even _know_ who Kuroo is?”

“The shateigashira of Nekoma. I did study – you helped me learn my lesson.”

“You’re welcome, but that’s not enough. Listen, Kuroo Tetsurou is more widely commended as Kuroo the Undefeated.” Sawamura snorts at that. “Yeah, it’s like something right out of a manga for teenagers, I relate. But he is undefeated. Or was. He’s not a genius, but he’s scarier than a genius. He’s wiped out a hundred yakuza members on his own when he was seventeen, and another hundred at twenty-one. On solo, he is in summary, undefeatable. Not even Bokuto or Oikawa can escape Kuroo without a severed arm or two.”

“Bokuto and Oikawa… the Kumichos of Fukurodani and Seijoh, yes?”

“Right. Although Oikawa’s reign inaugurated only two months ago – he was the shateigashira of Seijoh before that. Bokuto was appointed the youngest Kumicho in yakuza history to date. Though they’re both similar in that Bokuto and Oikawa are prodigies, Fukurodani is an organization that sustains Bokuto, and Seijoh is an organization completely under Oikawa’s control.”

Sawamura scribbles a few notes. “I see. And?”

“The best scenario that everyone is hoping for is that this is solely Nekoma’s problem, or Kuroo’s. Kuroo has plenty of enemies, although not so much Nekoma. It’s not startling to hear that someone has attacked him. The issue is that Kuroo isn’t a guy that can be just ‘taken down’ by anyone – at least, there’s no one in the east if you remove Oikawa and Bokuto from the equation.”

“In other words,” begins Sawamura, “you’re suspecting the west.”

“Not merely anyone from the west. The only person capable of fatally wounding Kuroo like that in a one-on-one is Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“The wakagashira of Shiratorizawa.”

“Correct. If it _is_ him… then a war is inevitable. Shiratorizawa is the leading family of the West Tokyo Alliance.” Sugawara shuts his eyes and curls into himself. “I just don’t _understand,_ though. There’s no motive. We haven’t had a war for decades, almost half a century. They should be cognizant of how the cops are sniffing us out; Ushiwaka isn’t the type of guy to let that go amiss. If we commence a war, we’ll draw unnecessary attention.”

“What about the possibility of there being more than one assailant?”

“It’s a situation that can’t be factored out, but that doesn’t magically change Kuroo’s strength. If it isn’t Ushiwaka, then it can be someone from Inarizaki. They always work in pairs.”

“The west either way, then. Do you think that can be linked to the organization behind the drug trade and kidnappings?”

Sugawara flaps his hand tiredly. “Who knows, I’m not a detective. But there is something that’s been nagging at me…”

“What is it?”

“December 31st,” he replays the cuts from that night. “I was shot four times. I would’ve bled out on the street if it weren’t for you. I was being followed, and when I ran, they came after me. They weren’t particularly strong, but I wasn’t armed.” He glances at Sawamura. “Kuroo was also shot four times. I was a shateigashira before my demotion; Kuroo is a shateigashira.”

“A serial murder attempt, you mean?”

“Not sure. But the overlaps are uncanny.”

Sawamura tapes the page with his pen. “Three months between… it is quite a gap to be a serial murder incident. We’ll have to see.”

Koushi shrugs it off. “It can be coincidence.”

“By the way,” Sawamura’s notepad closes with a ‘slap.’ “Why weren’t you armed?”

“Huh?”

“That night. It was what threw me off. There were blades, but those are also carried around by women for self-defense. Another division was able to identify who you were, but you were out of the hospital before they could arrest you. Had you been armed with a revolver, it wouldn’t have taken so much time.”

“Like I said, most cops know who I am, and they also know that I’m always unarmed.” He steals a glimpse at Sawamura. “Let’s walk a little. I’m getting pins and needles in my foot.” They rise and amble around the park in a circle. “What was the question again? Why wasn’t I armed?”

“Yes.”

“I never had to be.” He answers, “I’m friendly with everyone at the east, from branch family lackeys to the Kumichos. Bokuto invites me to Fukurodani’s annual celebrations.”

“Even then,” the other retorts, “you seem to be more circumspect than that.”

 _A compliment? Huh._ “I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger, anyway.” Sawamura blinks. “Personal reasons.” A dead lamp shines again, stuttering to life. A dove that was sleeping atop it flies away, awakened. The park is quiet, the croaks of crickets resounding through the trees and greenery.

“A question.”

His mouth curves. “Relevant to the case?”

“No. Just curious.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you killed someone before?”

Sugawara stops in his tracks, and so does Sawamura. “Will I be shipped off to prison if I admit to my crimes?”

“No, I don’t have any evidence or a warrant.”

 _So serious._ “Will you believe if I say no?”

“I don’t know.”

He stares at the cop. He looks nice. Objectively nice. His thighs should be illegal. _If he wasn’t a cop, I might’ve been in._ “No,” he resumes his walk. “I haven’t.”

“Aren’t you a yakuza?”

“Not all yakuza are spawns of the devil,” Sugawara counters jokingly. He then remembers Kageyama, Nishinoya, Tanaka, Tsukishima – Karasuno. Where he belongs. Where he used to belong. Where in the fullest sense, he can’t belong anymore. “Not all of us are bad.”

Sawamura doesn’t respond.

“Also, a question,” it’s his turn. “Is your animosity towards us rooted in your morals and code of justice, or is it a personal grudge?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

“Well, I don’t have guns or blades to threaten you, so no.”

The policeman doesn’t halt, doesn’t face Koushi, and moves forward. “It’s the latter.”

A personal grudge.

 _Ah,_ he doesn’t reply.

They walk in silence until the final announcement throughout the dimly lit park.

Sawamura was right – it wasn’t romantic.

Prior to his demotion, mornings were one of the most packed hours of his day. He was pretty much the secretary of the Kumicho, organizing meetings with other Kumichos, and responsible for administering missions to lackeys and subordinates. Technically, anyone with the skills and diligence could’ve done it, but amongst the yakuza, ones with both the required skills and diligence are almost impossible to find.

That too, however, is a tale of the past. He’s simply an unemployed twenty-six-year-old man with nothing to do. _Maybe I should ask Saeko-san if she can hire me. She might._ But the Garage Bar was owned by the yakuza anyway, so that was unlikely. _Or I can crossdress or something. Or dance. Wasn’t Akaashi in one of those clubs before Bokuto accepted him into the family? I’ll have to ask him._

Brushing his teeth, he switches on the television and watches the morning news channel. _Nihon-ichi, DTV… ah, TBC._ The weather forecaster has the map of Japan on display. “ _It’s projected to drizzle this week due to the typhoon…”_

His phone vibrates on the table. Sugawara disregards it and washes his face in the bathroom, and then flops back down on his couch. The weather forecaster lady is still onscreen.

[ **Incoming call: Asahi]**

 _Asahi?_ “Hello?”

“ _The heck, why haven’t you picked up?”_

“I just woke up.”

“ _Jesus, I thought- no, whatever. Have you heard anything from Kageyama yet? Ennoshita, perhaps?”_

The forecaster disappears, and the reporters are on. “If this is about Kuroo, yes, I –“

“ _No, this isn’t about Kuroo. There was another incident last night.”_

He snatches the remote and turns off the TV. “What do you mean there was another one?”

“ _Matsukawa Issei from Seijoh.”_

Matsukawa Issei. He was Seijoh’s shateigashira.

Sugawara, Kuroo, Matsukawa.

Karasuno, Nekoma, Seijoh.

“Does that mean…”

“ _Yeah. The council will be this weekend.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens...


	4. The Council Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I hope you had a great week! I have returned with an update (unedited), so please bear with me if you spot awkward spelling/grammar errors. I'll get back to them and fix those once I have time. 
> 
> I also realized while writing this chapter - IF, by any chance, there are readers who are planning to read part 1 after part 2 is over, I must warn you that part 2 inevitably contains spoilers for part 1 (major spoilers, too). So, I'll assert that while you do not need to read part 1 to understand part 2, part 2 discusses content from part 1 which are meant to be huge twists and reveals. Just a heads up. 
> 
> It is confirmed that the update cycle will once a week (if possible). This semester is literally insufferable, and I don't think I can update as frequently. Thanks for all your support, though - I really appreciate the feedback!
> 
> I won't squander more of your time - enjoy!

“Explain.”

“Even if you tell me that, there’s not much to say.”

Azumane Asahi, the sixth wakagashira of Karasuno, Sugawara’s colleague and best friend of twelve years, uses a rubber band to tie his hair into a bun. They’re huddled around the foldable roundtable in Asahi’s apartment, where he lives with his sister, Kaoru, and her son, Taiyou. Their mugs of coffee remain untouched, and the curtains and lights are closed; the rays of sunshine which seep through the rippling gaps are their sole source of light.

“A war – it’s so far-fetched. There has to be something else.”

Asahi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know, I know… but is there an alternative answer? Three shateigashiras were gunned down, all from the east. Two in the span of three days. It’s a declaration, to be frank.”

“Kuroo, and then Matsukawa,” Sugawara mumbles pensively, “how did they even locate Matsukawa? That guy has practically merged with the shadows; he only comes out when Oikawa requests for him, or for Hanamaki. Is it even possible to draw him out?”

“Yeah, well, it happened. I don’t want to insinuate baselessly, but,” the wakagashira shudders, “you have to admit, there are very few candidates who persist on the list when you factor in the ability to defeat both Kuroo and Matsukawa. I, for one, can’t even dream of doing that.” It’s true. Asahi is a potent opponent once his switch clicks, but otherwise, he’s a scaredy cat who freaks out at the sight of a cockroach in the kitchen. “In the east, there’d be Iwaizumi and… Bokuto, I suppose. Solo isn’t Oikawa’s forte, after all. And in the west…”

“Ushiwaka… huh,” the name rolls off his tongue rockily.

Asahi drinks from his mug. “What about Miya Atsumu? Or Ojiro Aran, I don’t know. They’re all unrealistic beasts, those foxes.”

“Miya Atsumu wouldn’t waste four bullets, or even two, for that matter. He’s capable of perfect headshots – but that’s because he doesn’t like to prolong fights. Furthermore, both the Miya twins don’t act unless Kita commands them to. If the twin foxes aimed those guns, the one that’s pulling the trigger isn’t them but Kita.” _I heard they had a new member, though. Sakusa Kiyoomi, was it? I might have to look into him._ “What are the benefits of instigating another war?”

“Territory expansion,” responds Asahi, raising his index finger, “reassertion of authority, reformation of the alliance… multitudes of reasons which could become benefits, depending on how they’re manipulated.”

“The dogs have caught onto the drug trades and kidnappings. If we carelessly engage in an all-out confrontation, it can eradicate Tokyo’s yakuza order itself.”

“Like we aren’t aware of that,” Azumane throws his head back wearily. “You should’ve been at headquarters yesterday; it was the most accurate depiction of pandemonium. Kumicho Nekomata aside, you _know_ how Oikawa gets when it’s about his subordinates. I swear, if the east is annihilated, it’s on him.”

Sugawara laughs sympathetically. “It’s alright, he can be capricious but was elected to be the Kumicho of Seijoh.”

“Let’s stop talking about this, I think I might puke.” Asahi’s complexion is pale. He’s never liked trouble – the biggest plot twist of the century, in contrast to his burly appearance and the enormous crow tattooed on his back.

Leaning on the cushions of the sofa, Koushi asks, “How’s Kaoru-san?”

“Oh, healthy. She’s immersed in this… gymnastics-ballet hybrid-like thing. It was weird. Fillet? Pillow? Tesla?”

“Pilates?”

“Right. Whatever that is; she’s having fun and befriending other women her age, so I guess it’s great. Ah, Tai is in fourth grade now. Time sure flies, eh?”

“Wow, fourth grade – I’ve seen that kid since he was a fetus.” Azumane Taiyou is an angel – the purest, kindest soul Sugawara has ever met on Earth. He was a carbon copy of his mother, who had rosy cheeks and dimples, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he cackled. If there’s something he has inherited from his uncle, it would be his gentle nature; otherwise, it’s an arduous task to predict that they are related in any way. Kaoru and Asahi don’t resemble each other either, so it’s to be expected. “What about Nishinoya?”

“He was suspended from missions for a week because he chucked a bonsai vase at one of the elders during a conference,” Asahi shrugs resignedly, “he’s been so distraught about your demotion – more than you, I daresay. I attempted to calm him, but you know how he has to free his emotions one way or another, unless you want him to explode in galactic proportions in the future.”

“A ticking bomb.”

“Precisely.” The fond edge is there, despite the worn-out expression Asahi has. “You mean a lot to him. Well, you mean a lot to Nishinoya and Kageyama’s generation. You are their literal maternal figure.”

Sugawara snorts, “I don’t recall giving birth to those children.”

“I’m serious; Tsukishima has been spending hours in the basement libraries. I think he’s browsing through every revoked demotion in Karasuno’s history, and why the exception was made. Yamaguchi has let me in on his progress, and – all I want to highlight is that you have some ferocious sons, Suga.”

“Really.”

“Really.” Asahi grins, “And you? Up to anything? _Anyone_?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he nudges the man in the shin, “I’m not seeking for a partner.”

“Oh, come on. You seemed to hit it off with, who was it again? There was that guy with a lip piercing.”

“I was _seventeen_ , what year are we in?”

“What about Oikawa?”

“That was a _one-night_ thing, I’ve been repeating this story for eons.” Sugawara’s thankful that Iwaizumi hasn’t barged into his house to slaughter him for it yet. “We were drunk and high-strung, it doesn’t count. Besides, he accidentally moaned Iwaizumi’s name when he climaxed.”

“Oof.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m just saying this as your friend,” Asahi tosses him a spicy mint-flavored candy from the sweets basket. “You should loosen up. You paid back your debt too, and Kumicho Ikkei retired. You don’t even owe Karasuno two cents. Isn’t it alright to dedicate yourself to something else for once? Whether that’s romance, or a hobby, or a vacation – you have some cash stocked, although your salary’s gone.”

Sugawara sinks into the comforts of the silk covers. “I don’t feel like it.”

“You’re a workaholic.”

“It’s not that,” the fan vibrates to his left. “I can’t imagine myself with someone. I’ve been in this industry since I was fifteen. I had hook-ups and some people who went on and off, but to be in an exclusive relationship is just,” the artificial breeze cools his side. “It’s a ton of commitment for both parties.”

The other crow glances at him, “You don’t want to commit?”

“It’s not whether I want to or not – I don’t think I’m physically nor psychologically capable.”

 _(“Have you killed someone before?”_ )

“What about Kageyama and the rest?”

“That’s fundamentally disparate,” he places an arm over his forehead. “Being in a romantic relationship involves both giving and receiving.”

Sugawara Koushi has plenty to offer. Giving is easy. He’s always been like that.

 _But when those emotions are reciprocated_ , “Suga,” Asahi rumbles, “don’t cage yourself.”

He swallows.

“Yeah.”

_Can I?_

In the mid-afternoon, he visits Kenma during his fifteen-minute excursion at the bar. He has his blond strands in a messy bun – something he does when he hasn’t showered – and there are bruises under his pink eyes. An unlit cig bobs up and down between his lips as he balances himself on one heel dazedly. Sugawara pushes the ashtray towards him, and Kenma acknowledges him with a slurred ‘thanks.’ Kenma had only smoked in front of him twice – after Kumicho Nekomata, his grandfather, was diagnosed with liver cancer (eventually cured, as it was discovered in its early stages), and when Kuroo rejected him. This would be the third.

“How’s Kuroo?” He queries softly, adjusting his tone so that it’s neither overtly inquisitive nor invasive. Kenma shakes the ash off on the edge and sucks in again, deeply. He coughs; Sugawara pretends not to notice.

“Unconscious.”

That goes without question. Sugawara was out for almost two weeks as well. “What about Nekoma?”

“In disarray,” Kenma tongues his cheek. “Kuro not being able to function as the shateigashira equates to… a major breakdown of Nekoma’s administrative system. It’s already been a pain in the ass with all the dealers and kidnapping shenanigans, and to lose Kuro now is,” a sullen bout of silence, “whatever.”

 _Not really what I meant, but sure._ “And what about you?”

Kenma snorts rather cynically. “I think it’s obvious.”

“Yeah, but you know,” he glimpses at Saeko; she hasn’t shouted for Kenma to get back in the kitchen yet. “Verbalizing your thought processes is crucial.”

“As if I’d fall for your informant techniques.”

“I’m your friend before my occupation, Kenma. I think I’ll feel personally attacked if you proclaim otherwise.”

After seconds of an averted gaze and insistent smoking, Kenma squashes it into the sand. “His hair was flat,” he mumbles, his palm supporting his chin. “And you know how Kuro’s hairdo is.”

“Wasn’t that his natural bedhead?”

“It is. He has a habit of burying his face into his pillow, around his ears. But two nights without it was enough to straighten it out.” Kenma continues, “It wasn’t normal. It was,” he shrinks into himself, “wrong.”

He can relate. He watched the deterioration of his mother’s mental health – when he perceived it as wrong, abnormal, until it molded itself into the new ordinary. Kenma doesn’t want that – nobody would. “Are you suspecting the west?”

“It’s a faulty rhetoric, to immediately aim the west when there are infinite candidates so far, with how little to no evidence we have,” states Kenma, “but it’s possible, of course.”

“People are narrowing down their options to Inarizaki and Shiratorizawa.”

The bartender grabs a washcloth from the hangers and wipes the counter. “I wouldn’t cast a vote for Inarizaki.”

“Why not?”

“A personal judgment of Miya Atsumu’s character. You realized ages ago, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he admits, “he isn’t the type. Not like Ushiwaka is either, though.”

“There’ll be a debate in council about it, anyway.”

“Are you going?”

“Much to my dismay, yes.” Kenma knits his brows, discontented. “Means I have to interact with Fukurodani and Seijoh’s Kumicho.” Sugawara laughs. Bokuto and Oikawa were on par when it came to their dismal compatibility with the blonde. “I’ll order Mori to ward them away.”

“That’s an abuse of authority, _young master._ ”

Said young master shrugs, “They should be reincarnated as a yakuza Kumicho’s grandson too, then.” Then, “It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, despite what the majority believe.”

( _“He said no.”_

_“He what?”_

_“He said no.” Kenma reiterated, munching on a slice of apple pie. Koushi gawked at him. “Your jaw is about to kiss the floor.”_

_“Wait, wait, wait,” he rammed his hands onto the table, and Kenma’s platter rattled against the glass surface. “He rejected you? Kuroo Tetsurou? The guy who melts around you at every opportunity, the guy who purchased the ownership to a fucking bakery because you liked their pies, the guy who lost his shit when you scraped your knee –_ that _Kuroo Tetsurou?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Is it April Fools?” It wasn’t. “It’s not. Holy mother of- what’s,” he froze. “Are you okay?”_

_Kenma releases his fork and takes out his box of cigarettes. He was definitely not okay._

_“… Why?”_

_The apple pie sat there, lonesome and stale. “Because I’m the young master, and he’s the shateigashira,” Kenma’s expression contorted into something with a tinge of deprecation, and then sorrow. “I would’ve preferred that he said he despised my personality. That’s fixable, at least.”_

_“He’s an idiot.”_

_“I know.” Kenma whispered, “He knows, too.”)_

“Kenma,” he begins, but Saeko hollers in their direction, demanding Kenma to get his ass at the bar. The latter obliges and turns, but before he walks off, he looks at Sugawara in the eye.

“See you at the council, Koushi.”

The East Tokyo Alliance Council is just that – a yakuza summit meeting, pretty much. It typically involves three representatives from each of the four families: Karasuno, Fukurodani, Seijoh, and Nekoma. The representatives are usually comprised of the members at the apex of the organization’s upper echelon, including the Kumicho, the shateigashira, and the wakagashira. However, the respective families were free to select their representatives as they pleased, as long as the Kumicho was present; there are no official policies regarding the council. Now, there is a unique exception to this, which pertains to Sugawara’s circumstance: when the representatives of other families explicitly request for a certain individual from another family to be present.

“Oikawa especially,” Ukai Keishin elaborates, as Sugawara drives them to their destination – Fukurodani’s headquarters. Asahi is on the passenger’s seat, conversing with Akaashi over the phone about topics that must be covered during the council. “He advocated for your attendance the most. So did Bokuto, but that guy doesn’t change his perception of people based on rumors and reputation; he’s always liked you.”

“What an honor.”

“Bokuto aside, I wouldn’t trust Oikawa much. Who knows what he has in store for us.”

“… Are you referring to former Kumicho Irihata’s death?”

“Naturally. That geezer was fit and was on his meds. For him to pass with a heart attack – it’s not improbable, but, well.”

Oikawa was promoted a couple months ago, from shateigashira to Kumicho. Irihata had passed away and Oikawa was the unanimous decision for the next leader. While Koushi conceded that it was rather abrupt and shady, he wasn’t taken aback; Oikawa Tooru was that kind of human being. A “human” who perfectly blended into the underworld, so flawlessly camouflaged that he was practically the underworld itself. Kuroo was intimidating, but not like that. He’s one of the scarce individuals whom Sugawara hasn’t completely grasped.

“Oikawa, huh?” Asahi chimes in, “I’d never want to face him as an enemy.”

“Blessed that we’re on the same side of the city.”

“Right.”

The sentence that remains unspoken is, ‘ _but we don’t have Ushijima Wakatoshi.’_

They arrive at Fukurodani half an hour later, and Akaashi greets them at the entrance. Akaashi Keiji is a breathtakingly attractive man, from the solid elegance with which he comports himself, to the delicate corners of his entrancing bodily features. Nobody would guess that such a man is the wakagashira of Fukurodani, but he is. “Thank you for making an effort to come all the way here.”

“Well, according to the cycle, Fukurodani’s headquarters was our next spot.”

Akaashi nods and guides them into the traditional, Japanese-styled mansion – Fukurodani’s headquarters was designed and tailored to the tastes of their founding Kumicho. “Seijoh hasn’t arrived, so you’re not late. Would you like some tea? We have hoji-cha and barley.”

“Barley would be fine.”

“Alright. Make yourself comfortable.”

They enter a cozy compartment, a space which isn’t quite inside nor outside; one wall is missing, connecting to Fukurodani’s private garden, a bamboo fence between the room and the patch of grass. There is a pond with koi fish in the center, the water reflecting the luminous moon in the twilight, and wisterias wavering along the journeys of the breeze.

“Quite charming, hm?”

A voice interjects, and they all instantly bow out of reflex, “Kumicho Nekomata.” Keishin smiles, “I’m glad to see that you’re well.”

“Of course; unlike Ikkei, I am in favor of longevity.” Kozume Kenma and Kai Nobuyuki are to his left and right.

“No Yaku, Kenma?” Sugawara snickers, and Kenma glowers at him.

“Where’s Kumicho Bokuto?” Asahi scans the area, and Konoha Akinori, the shateigashira of Fukurodani, grunts:

“Somewhere in the garden plucking flowers for Akaashi.”

“Before a council?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s uplifting, yes?” Chuckles Nekomata, sipping his tea, “It’s one of his venerable qualities, in contrast to his… problematic tendencies.” _Nicely phrased, Kumicho Nekomata._ “An honest leader is a gem.”

Konoha refutes, “An honest leader is one thing, a leader who constantly attempts to seduce his subordinate is another.”

“Well, it’s Akaashi.” Sugawara supplies, and Konoha considers that.

“You have a point there.”

“Oh, we’re all gathered?”

The flow of air swings; at the patterned door is Oikawa Tooru, his fringes slicked back with gel, wearing a charcoal tux. “Twenty-eight minutes past the promised hour,” Konoha drawls, “dropped by the barber’s or something, Kumicho Oikawa?”

“No, no. I had a crucial appointment to tend to.”

“There was a limited sale of milk bread at Lawson’s,” Iwaizumi Hajime growls at his boss, and Oikawa shushes him. “Apologies. He has yet to mature into a full-fledged adult. I hope you’ll condone his unseemly behavior.”

“Nah, ‘s cool. Our Kumicho is traipsing in the garden, anyway. Hey, Akaashi, where is he?”

Akaashi sets the mugs of tea down on the tatami mat, “He should regress to this hall soon. It takes him approximately forty-five minutes to venture around the garden, and since he departed earlier, he –“

“Akaashi, Akaashi!”

 _Speaking of the devil,_ Bokuto Koutarou skips over the bamboo fence in his silver-black schemed yukata, outlines of feathers sewed into the cotton of his haori. His golden orbs glint like those of the great horned owl. “Bokuto-san, you’re not supposed to remove the roots of the flower when plucking them.” Akaashi reprimands, and the Kumicho gapes.

“Are you serious? Crap, what should I do?”

“I’ll ask Sarukui-san to replant them once the council is over. Put them on the grass.”

“Okay,” Bokuto hurriedly does as Akaashi suggests, and shuffles to his seat, the view of the wide garden as his backdrop. “Right, so, uh, thanks for coming?”

“You have downright abysmal formalities and mannerisms for these events, Bokuto. Act like you always do.” Chortles Oikawa, and Bokuto releases an elongated whine at that, rolling up the sleeves of his yukata and crossing his legs on the floor.

“’S not like I can help it, this is my first actual council as Kumicho. I presumed I ought to be professional, or, you know?”

“Professionalism is a comically minor factor – insignificant, when compared to the scale of this predicament we have to tackle tonight.” Nekomata clears the remnants of his tea and leers. “And regrettably, my child’s blood had been shed in the process.” Sugawara shivers at the sheer animosity which oozes from the elderly man.

“Before we commence,” Kai raises his hand, “Kumicho Oikawa, who’s your other companion?”

The divided attention re-concentrates on the newcomer who has supplanted Matsukawa to Oikawa’s left. “Hanamaki Takahiro,” the male introduces himself dully, “Seijoh’s lawyer.”

“A lawyer? He’s not a yakuza, then,” remarks Konoha, “is he reliable?”

Oikawa angles his chin, “Are you implicating that my judgment is skewed, _Konoha-san_?”

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki hisses reprovingly. “Sorry, he doesn’t like it when people do that. I’ve been Seijoh’s lawyer even before Oikawa was the shateigashira. While I do not participate in skirmishes and brawls, I am confident that I am more informed and well-updated about the exchanges of this industry than experienced lackeys. I wouldn’t be here in lieu of Issei otherwise.”

“So he says,” Kenma resolves and Konoha bites back whatever rejoinder that had bubbled up his throat. “Keiji, what does the situation look like?”

“Ah, yes.” Akaashi peruses the texts and documents on his desk. “I have received a report from one of our lackeys that the west has also refortified their defenses. I believe they are anticipating an ambush from the east, which communicates that they’re readying for the chances of a second yakuza war as well.”

Keishin inquires, “Any movements from Inarizaki or Shiratorizawa?”

“No, none were observed.”

Sugawara parts his mouth, “We can’t point our arrows to the west alone. Another organization could be the true culprit.”

“And the reason for that would be?”

“It’s straightforward logic and deduction. This is an inopportune period of the year for a war of any kind. Dogs are lurking in the nooks of our territories, investigating the drug case. Avoiding inconsequential clashes between the east and west could be critical in preserving the distance we have with Tokyo’s MPDI. While I recognize that the west is often… unpredictable, more cautious individuals exist, such as those of Nohebi and Kumicho Washijou, and they would be more than aware of this. In short, the west has no evident merit in attacking prominent shateigashiras of the east.” Acceding hums and nods echo after Sugawara’s explication.

“No merit…” Kenma murmurs, and then lifts his head. “There is merit for the ones distributing the drugs, though.”

Iwaizumi grunts, “Which would be?”

“A war means every family has lesser resources, or available members, to deploy throughout their territory to filter out the dealers. This organization was pursued by the yakuza, and now most likely by the cops too. They would’ve desired to redirect the dogs’ snouts to us in order to facilitate the proceedings of their business. A hypothetical city-wide war could be a viable solution to that dilemma.”

“They’re using the yakuza, eh?”

“That would be it.”

“The question of paramount importance has yet to be addressed,” Hanamaki joins in, “who the hell other than the west has such formidable men, enough to defeat both Kuroo Tetsurou and Issei?”

“Suga too,” comments Asahi, “not in terms of strength, but it’s irrefutable that Sugawara’s absence deprives us of our connections with the common citizens in our district. Honestly, immobilizing him rather than Kageyama or I is much more effective in debilitating Karasuno.”

“You know, it’s interesting how they targeted not only the shateigashiras but core figures in each organization; ones we all absolutely _need_ to advance in our day-to-day missions and tasks.” Bokuto’s lips twist into a downturned, sour frown. “It reveals that these suckers _have_ to be affiliated with the yakuza.”

Oikawa acquiesces, “Bokuto’s correct. Kuroo of Nekoma, Sugawara of Karasuno, and Mattsun from us – it appears to be an intentional targeting of shateigashiras, but there’s more to it. Whoever’s plotting against the alliance possesses bountiful knowledge and thorough understanding of our relationships. It decreases the possibility of them being a completely foreign organization outside of Tokyo.”

“Well, we can’t exclude the west either.”

“Gah,” Bokuto claws at his spiky locks, “too much brainpower. So, what? What’s the conclusion?”

“We’re getting there, be patient.” Keishin chastises, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t it be better to adjourn the council, at least until we garner more evidence? At this rate, we’d only be piling speculations on top of speculations.”

“And dawdle around until we suffer another casualty?” Iwaizumi’s voice climbs in volume, “Seijoh cannot afford to lose more.”

“Seijoh isn’t the only one who is cracking under the pressure.” Kai replies, locking his eyes with Iwaizumi. “If the same dastardly fate befalls Fukurodani, the east’s power balance will falter.”

“Balance aside, it’ll be grueling to even hold off the west, given that the war actually unfolds. The combination of the Miya twins, Ushijima Wakatoshi, and Nohebi’s intel… it’s beyond perilous; this is catastrophic. A calamity.”

A name pops into his mind. “What about Sakusa Kiyoomi?”

“Sakusa who?” Bokuto parrots, “Never heard of him. Who’s that?”

“As to be expected of Sugawara-kun – even without digital networks, you acquire information fast.” Oikawa smirks, “he was a lackey at Itachiyama, Inarizaki’s former branch family, now a fox. He’s Miya Atsumu’s partner. You know this, don’t you, Akaashi-kun?”

“I do. He transferred last December, didn’t he? A few days prior to New Year’s.”

“The Miya twins are ancient news,” Oikawa waves dismissively, “that duo is the one we should be wary of. As a pair, they’ll be more irritating than Ushiwaka.”

“Duly noted.”

“Then, shall we wrap up for tonight? It’s past one, and it seems like we won’t be able to reach a consensus.”

“Agreed.”

“Alright. We’ll adjourn the council to another date.”

 _Finally._ Sugawara relaxes his tight muscles. An extra minute, and his foot would’ve cramped due to kneeling on the tatami for too long. Asahi sighs and hits his shoulders with his fists. People file out one by one, bidding their farewells; Bokuto flies out to the garden, shouting for Sarukui with all his might, the flowers tucked in his yukata. Kenma nods at him and steps out with Nekomata and Kai. “Well, then. Let’s take our leave, too.”

“Ah, yes, Kumicho.”

Just as he rushes to the gates, he spots Oikawa standing in a vacant corridor, both Iwaizumi and Hanamaki gone.

_(“Oikawa especially. He advocated for your attendance the most.”)_

“Suga?”

“Mind heating the engine? It won’t take more than two minutes.”

Asahi shrugs and trudges over to their car with Keishin. Sugawara approaches Oikawa, who flits towards him, lowering his phone. “Oh, Suga-kun. Pleasant to see you; you’re refreshing as always.”

“Sweet talking doesn’t work on me. You should know that.”

“It was worth a try.”

“Where’s Iwaizumi and Hanamaki?”

“Bathroom. Are you here for one of them?”

“No, for you.” He doesn’t bother to tiptoe around the issue. “Why did it have to be me, not Ennoshita?”

Oikawa scoffs, fiddling with his phone. “I’m not quite sure where this is coming from.”

“Tonight, the council. You foresaw that the council would have to be adjourned.” So did Sugawara, but that was obvious to anyone. There are four eastern families at stake; it couldn’t be as simple as stamping papers and accepting missions. “I didn’t have to be there. It could’ve been Ennoshita, and he would’ve been able to draw the same theories I had. Don’t underestimate my subordinate.”

“I missed you, maybe.”

“You?” He snorts, “You wouldn’t care if I were to die this very second.”

“Aw, that’s not true. I’d call for an ambulance, at least.”

“If you don’t feel like answering, then fine.” It’s not like he thought Oikawa would, anyway. “You’re an enigma.”

Oikawa merely hums apathetically. “Well…” Sugawara quirks a brow at him. “I didn’t have a firm ulterior motive. It’s just…” the Kumicho stalls, and then beams crookedly at him. “You’re unique, and I have a premonition that it’ll come in handy.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“I don’t know,” Oikawa’s smile gleams. “It might as well be a curse.”

###

Kumicho Nekomata gazes absentmindedly at the shimmering profile of Tokyo as they drive over the bridge. Twenty years ago, there were none of those skyscrapers, none of those extravagant, fluorescent signs, and far less people hustling and bustling through the streets and alleys. Although there was no geographical alternation of the metropolis itself, the capital in Nekomata Yasufumi’s memories are beginning to vanish.

“Kumicho?”

“Hm?”

“We’re here.”

“Ah, yes.”

Kai opens the door for him. He looks at the sky. “The moon shines over us, both twenty years ago and today.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, no. Talking to myself.”

_Time will solve everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be more DaiSuga content in the next chapter :')


	5. The Night (Ver.2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I'm back for an early update because the next chapter will most likely be late. I think. I don't know, it's hard to guess-timate. 
> 
> Anyway! I can't believe we're already at chapter 5. This chapter is titled 'The Night (Ver.2)' because chapter 5 of And Foxes will Lie is also titled 'The Night.' And speaking AFwL (I'm getting lazy to type out the full name lol) - can't believe it's over 600 kudos now! I'm guessing that's because there are readers who click on this story to check out part 1, so thank you guys! I always appreciate any kind of feedback :D
> 
> I'll talk more at the end notes. For now, let's dive in!

“… you considered it?”

“I mean, Superintendent, I’ve told you before…”

Futakuchi Kenji halts, his ears perking at the faint dialogue. He’s completely stationary, the copied reports in his arms, as he lowers his head and cocks his neck towards the source of noise. The

“Well, when we contact him, his secretary always informs us that he’s not available.”

 _Superintendent Takei?_ He is the most influential man in Tokyo’s MPDI, _what’s he doing here?_

“Then he probably isn’t. He’s a busy man.”

He frowns deeply at the person the Superintendent is conversing with – _Terushima Yuuji._ The senior officer stands obliquely, scratching his scalp. Takei wears a forceful smile. “I’m sure you can do something about it. After all, you’re –“

“Superintendent,” Terushima interrupts suavely, “I believe I’ve communicated my stance regarding this topic last year when I was promoted. If you’d like to meet up with that man, I’d appreciate it if you do it yourself. I don’t want unnecessary stories spreading around in the division’s premises.”

“Of course. We were simply wondering over his whereabouts; he never seems to be present at his office.”

“He’s a workaholic. Give him three business days, maybe.”

Takei nods, his smile wry. “Sure. I wish you the best on the case. It’s a rather tricky one.”

“Thank you.” Terushima salutes in the typical Terushima-jocky-fashion, which Futakuchi huffs mutely at. The Superintendent marches off down the corridor, and Terushima whistles, ambling towards Futakuchi. “Oh. Futakuchi.” He blinks, and the junior officer doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping. “Sneaky. How much did you hear?”

“Nothing worthwhile.” Scrutinizing Terushima from head to toe, he queries, “What was that?”

Terushima adjusts his tie so that its knot is loose around his collar. “Take a guess – you’re smart.”

He’ll go off a tangent for a moment, but – Futakuchi always judged Terushima to be a figure in veils. He was unprecedentedly young for his rank, had pin-point instincts and creative deductions, and yet sported the style of a gangster – bleached hair, piercings, and though he covered it with blazers and his uniform, he also had kanji characters tattooed over his shoulder blades (Futakuchi only knew because they saw each other half-naked in the showers before) – _simplicity and fortitude._ Which, truthfully, was more fitting for those like Sawamura, and the polar opposite of Terushima.

So, it’s strange to witness Terushima and the Superintendent interact privately. Terushima didn’t appear to care about buttering up to his superiors or intrigued by police hierarchy and politics. Maybe he’s about to be proven wrong.

“I’ll restate my question, then.” Futakuchi articulates slowly, “ _Who_ are you?”

Terushima flicks at him. “Heh, you’re quick. Can’t tell you, though – that’s no fun.” Futakuchi squints. “Don’t look at me like that. You shouldn’t get your hopes up; it’s underwhelming. Nothing CSI-scale.”

“It’s not relevant to the case, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” The blonde licks the piercing on his lip. “Really.”

“Good. That’s all I need to know.”

Terushima hums while Futakuchi walks ahead, matching his pace. “I understand why Sawamura-san was selected to be on the team, as well as why Kambe-san was recruited temporarily to be the lead Inspector. I can imagine why Kambe-san wanted me, too. You, though, Futakuchi – why’re you on this case?”

“It’s not like I have the freedom to choose what I want to investigate.”

“Lies, lies. I asked Kamasaki; it was either you or Aone-kun. You could’ve declined. I only joined because Division 3 is swamped with another robbery case, but Division 2 had more candidates.”

Futakuchi increases his pace, but Terushima doesn’t fall behind. “Nothing that would be of your interest.”

The corner of Terushima’s mouth curves lopsidedly. “You interest me plenty, Futakuchi-kun.”

“You say that to everyone.”

“I have a variety of repertoires, I admit,” _what a stereotypical flirt,_ “but you’re special.”

“Special being synonymous to?”

“I’d be willing to spend a night or two with you.”

“How professional.”

“Professionalism is a joke.” Terushima chuckles and stops in front of the men’s bathroom. “Think about it, Futakuchi-kun. I’m not half-bad.”

“No.”

“Dumped. I’m hurt.” But with a mocking wink, Terushima disappears. Futakuchi grips the papers tucked by his chest and sighs.

(“ _Why’re you on this case?”_ )

He peers at the blurry profile of his reflection in the transparent files with the copied reports.

( _“I can’t forgive that man, Kenji, I can’t forgive that man – I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll make sure he pays.”_ )

_Why, I wonder._

###

“You know –“

“Shh, no chatting during dinner. Where are your table manners?”

“That’s something my grandma would scold me about.”

“Call me a grandma, but food is very important.”

Sawamura Daichi hasn’t even lifted his spoon. His bowl of mapo tofu is steaming chili red. Sugawara, on the other hand, shovels down one fistful of rice and then another. “I thought you were aiming to act discreetly. Undercover. Subtle.”

“I’m starving, okay, I’ve exceeded the number of brain cells I’m meant to expend per day.

“How many is that?”

“Like,” Sugawara chews aggressively on the spicy tofu, “two and a quarter.”

“Down to a fraction, I see.”

“Specificity is critical.”

They’re at Sugawara’s favorite Chinese diner in Roppongi, the borders of Nekoma territory. “Wouldn’t someone recognize you?”

“Nekoma’s policy is that they’re ruthless towards enemies and hospitable towards friends and comrades. I’m Kenma’s friend, so I’m excused.” The cop sends him a blanked-out expression. “Ah, yeah, you wouldn’t know Kenma – he’s not an official or in Nekoma’s upper echelon. He’s a technician and in charge of Nekoma’s armory, Nekoma’s strategist, and Nekoma’s brain.” He swallows another hefty dollop of sauce. “But he doesn’t stand out because he doesn’t participate in physical combat and isn’t an authority. Not to mention that his daytime job is a bartender.”

“Hm, why wasn’t he promoted?”

“Because there’s no benefit for Kenma.”

“Meaning?”

“Kenma’s full name is Kozume Kenma. Nekomata is his mother’s surname.” Sawamura blinks, startled. “Yeah. He’s Kumicho Nekomata’s sole grandson and kin capable of inheriting Nekoma. The problem is that Kenma has no intention to do so; he likes where he is and what he does. Kumicho Nekomata isn’t strict about those stuff, so it’s pretty much finalized that Kuroo will be the next Kumicho. The point is, that there’s no value in giving Kenma a title when he doesn’t have the motivation to behave accordingly.” He peeks at Sawamura’s bowl, “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

“My spice tolerance is low,” admits Sawamura. “You can have my serving.”

Sugawara drags the mapo tofu over to his side. “Aren’t you hungry? The champon here is delicious too.”

“I had a sandwich at the precinct. I’m fine.”

 _Well, I was going to buy his meal, but sure. Let him blow the opportunity._ “The council was adjourned indefinitely.”

“That’d be for the best. I don’t see how the breakout of a seven-side war would serve any purpose during these times.”

Sugawara rolls his chopsticks between his fingers. “How are the kidnappings looking? Higher or lower?”

“It’s challenging to track. It’s another thing if we were in Hokkaido or Sapporo, where cities aren’t as developed and urbanized. I have found something quite suspicious, though.” Koushi glances up at the officer. “I understand why the police is frantic to keep this case shielded from the public, as a fellow cop in the department. However, I don’t comprehend as to why there haven’t been more media coverage of these kidnappings. I’ve been in Miyagi until early December, and three kidnappings of women in the span of a day would’ve been more than enough to have made the headlines. While Tokyo is geographically larger and more densely populated, there shouldn’t be such a stark contrast in how the mass media reacts.”

“It’s possible that the organization has connections with the press.” Sugawara theorizes – he’s acquainted with some reporters and journalists as well. Press companies being bribed by politicians and celebrities to hide scandals and scoops were commonplace. “But well, it’s also true that kidnapping incidents aren’t handled often in Tokyo. For one, there’s no proof – many of these women are illegal immigrants, undocumented, and those that are sometimes fake their identities. Your high schooler victim – Iwano Tsue – is an outlier to that trend, which is why you were able to even open this case. My question, alternatively, would be why they even conducted a deal with that girl. Students are high-risk targets because they have accessible records in the school’s database, as well as many testimonies.”

Sawamura nods in agreement. “Right – the age range has been twenty years old and up. We found that characteristic of Iwano Tsue queer, too.”

“Did that girl’s boyfriend mention anything else?”

“Not really. He did vehemently argue that he was threatened at gunpoint by two men, though. A quote-unquote ‘blonde with a shitty personality,’ and a ‘sleep-deprived mask freak.’”

“One should be Miya Atsumu.” There weren’t that many blondes with notably ‘shitty personalities’ – one is Miya Atsumu in the west, and the other is Tsukishima Kei in the east. “I’d guess the companion was Sakusa Kiyoomi. When was this?”

“Mid-November. We excluded Inarizaki from our priority list because of it; they were investigating about the drug, too.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi. Previously a member of Itachiyama, Inarizaki’s branch family, and a lackey – although Sugawara sensed that he was ‘unranked,’ rather than a mere lackey. No lackey stayed a lackey for that long; Sakusa had been in the industry for almost twenty years. _I thought he was like Kenma, but Itachiyama had an heir – Iizuna Tsukasa, who ended up betraying the family, killing the Kumicho._ Sugawara had never sat down to contemplate over the event. It was the west’s conflicts, not the east’s – but now, where chaos was brewing beneath the cement of Tokyo, anything could be crucial. “You’ve heard of Itachiyama, yes? The story of how the wakagashira rebelled against the Kumicho, which resulted in the destruction of the entire organization?”

“Yes, Hoshiumi relayed it to me. He said that probably wasn’t it, though.”

“It can’t be. Inarizaki wouldn’t have accepted Sakusa as a fox if that were everything. There’s got to be more.” Sugawara pieces some of the evidence and fragments of rumors together. “… I think your team should dig deeper into Itachiyama – what happened that night of the rebellion. Infiltrating the west isn’t hard if you’re able to mimic their dynamics well, more so if it’s a cop that has had minimal exposure, practically no field experience. Is there anyone like that on your team?”

Sawamura purses his lips in thought. “There _is_ me, because I transferred three months ago, but I’ve been to the west once to assist the inspection of an assault incident; there’s my rank, too. Terushima is too famous.” Terushima Yuuji – Sugawara knows him as well; he’s one of the scarce cops the yakuza legitimately fear, because he does not give a crap about maintaining a composed façade – he will beat you up, and Terushima was strong. Perhaps at Asahi’s level, who’s reveled as the veteran member of Karasuno. Then, _snap,_ “Futakuchi.”

“Futakuchi?” He doesn’t have a clue who that is – it’s a great sign. “Who is he?”

“A junior officer, Division 2. He’s our most promising fit; I’ll bring it up to him tomorrow.”

“Warn him that he should never, _never_ come into contact with an informant. In the east, we have yakuza-affiliated informants like Akaashi and I, but there are also a batch of neutral, freelancer civilians. The west, on the contrary, only have two options: it’s either Shirabu Kenjirou from Shiratorizawa, or someone from Nohebi. If you want data and evidence, he’ll be on his own.”

“He’ll be fine. I think he was recruited because he was adept with tech-related material.”

“Hm…” Sugawara clears the last portion of his meal. “And you?”

“Ah, I’m not a machine-friendly person.”

“No, I mean,” _although that’s comical trivia about you,_ “what are you going to do hereon? You can’t blindly investigate and calculate statistics on a desk; that’s not productive. I can provide you with juicy details about the yakuza, but the fact that Ushijima Wakatoshi and Oikawa Tooru had beef since they were five-year-old toddlers or that Bokuto Koutarou has been struggling to woo Akaashi Keiji for the past six years isn’t going to miraculously solve your case.”

Sawamura’s brow twitches, “Why do you know all that?”

“People like to tell me things.” He stands with the paycheck, “I’m a terrific listener.”

A skeptical sniff. “Sure.”

 _Whatever, dude. You don’t like me, I get it. I don’t like you either._ He beams at the waitress and thanks her for her wonderful service, as always. They leave the diner, and Sugawara pats his stomach, satisfied. “How about investigating with me as your partner?”

“… _With_ you?”

“We’ll be stealthy. Because let’s be honest, all our meetings are futile if you don’t ask me questions that matter – you aren’t maximizing utility here. I’m a resource in high demand, and you can use me. Use me right.”

Sawamura claimed that he’d help Sugawara regain everything he had prior to New Year’s Eve; however, that is only achieved when this case is resolved. No progress for the police meant no returns for Sugawara, too. He can’t have that.

“Do you have a lead?”

Sugawara flips the coin he received as change. “I wouldn’t have chosen Roppongi as our meeting place otherwise. Let’s get into your car first.” The other guides them to a gray sedan in the parking slot for the diner; Sugawara plops on the passenger seat and takes out his phone. Sawamura glimpses at him. “I’ve said that Roppongi is by the borders of Nekoma’s lands. This is closer to the southern border, which is where we’d cross into Karasuno. If we head farther westward, then there’s a road – 5-chome. I’ll explain on the way.” With a terse nod, Sawamura pedals on the gas and they drive out of the parking space.

He goes on, “5-chome is also a boundary between the east and west. A couple kilometers in, and you’d be in Inarizaki.”

“And?”

“People often mistake 5-chome to be under Nekoma’s authorization, including the police, but it’s not. The strip of land between the west and east isn’t yakuza property. All crimes reported in that region are blamed on Nekoma due to this misunderstanding. But anyway, precisely because it isn’t owned by any yakuza organization, nobody bothers to go there; it could complicate relations with Nekoma if we’re accidentally arrested there by the cops – yeah, you can imagine.”

Realization seems to strike Sawamura at that. “Conversely interpreting, it also means that it’s an area where practically no search or investigation has been organized by the yakuza for years.”

“Bingo. We might be able to fish out something.”

If Sawamura’s impressed, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he asks, “You didn’t attend college, did you?”

“Is that meant to be backhanded insult?”

“No.”

Sugawara turns his body to gaze out the window. Roppongi glows orange and green, as tourists and salarymen with hostesses linked to their arms mill through the stores. “I graduated middle school but didn’t proceed to high school.”

“Hm,” they brake at a red light. “You would’ve been a good detective.”

“Ooh, a compliment?”

“No, a statement based on analytical observation.” Sawamura keeps his eyes plastered to the road. “I don’t understand why or how a student out of middle school would even end up joining a criminal association.”

 _Why or how,_ it might be the first time anyone’s questioned him about it. Your background was inconsequential in the world of the yakuza; you were a part of your family, and the family was who you were. There was no such thing as an independent life once you dipped your heels into the puddle of this industry – a puddle which turned out to be a depthless abyss.

“Hey,” he begins softly – the luminous signs nailed to the edge of the marquees blind him, but he doesn’t avert his attention. A part of him wants to be blinded. “You ever just wallow, ‘wow, I must be the unluckiest person on Earth?’” Sawamura flits at him, as the light flicks green. “Where everything snowballs until it’s too gigantic of an issue for you to surmount, where all you can do is resort to abandoning what you had and start anew,”

( _“Won’t you be a crow, lad?”_ )

“It all depends on where you decide to reconstruct that foundation. Some are fortunate and privileged enough to be endowed with fertile soil, and others,” an image of Kageyama crosses his mind. “Others, are dragged to cliffs, to deserts, to a mountain of rubbish – which they have to survive on.” Had Kageyama been saved by someone like Sawamura, then would his future have been painted with more colors? Had _Koushi_ been saved by someone other than, “There’s not always a choice, is there?”

He anticipated the man to reply with something along the lines of, ‘that’s a flimsy excuse.’ It’s what majority of the dogs said. It’s what the rest of society said. Sugawara doesn’t blame them. People live in their own shoes, because it’s uncomfortable and disturbing, both physically and mentally, to be in the shoes of others.

“That’s true.”

He turns to the cop, his lips slightly parted. Sawamura shrugs.

“I don’t condone crime, and I am adamantly opposed to the methods of the yakuza. That doesn’t mean I’m wholly ignorant of the reality that they’re people, too. There are thousands of yakuza in Tokyo, ten thousand in Japan as a country. That’s dozens of lives. Short or long, I’m sure they all have their own history to tell.” The man passes him an acknowledging blink, “Even you.”

The blaring of traffic lights casts a white and dark contrast of shadows over Sawamura’s features. The effect underscores the defined jawline of the man as well as his solemn yet warm character. For a millisecond, Sugawara’s flung back to that night at the bar before the policeman introduced himself. _If only he weren’t a dog,_ he internally sulks, just a little. “What’s high school like?”

Sawamura thins his lips as he wracks through his memories. “Rowdy. I went to an all-boy’s high school. It’s uncontrollable when you have hormonal boys running around the classroom, many of their actions driven by their sexual drive rather than rational thinking.”

“Really. You don’t seem like the troublemaker kind.”

“I was average. Class president.”

“Those two sentences are contradictory.” Sugawara snickers – he can picture Sawamura in glasses, shouting at the class to shut their mouths. “What about clubs?”

“Oh, I was the captain of the volleyball club. We weren’t a powerhouse but climbed to the semi-finals for Interhigh.”

“Heh, my subordinates play volleyball for fun. They’re prodigies. I feel like they would’ve gone to the nationals.”

“Nationals aren’t a joke, you know.”

“I’m not joking; they’re great at it. I can see that much, even if I’m an amateur.”

“Hm, I might want to watch them play sometime.”

“Tough luck. They don’t like dogs.” He smiles, “Maybe they’ll let you in when you’re with me. Just wear a cap and take off that badge. They’re dense,” Tsukishima’s stony face pops into his head, “… most of them are.”

After fifteen minutes, they’re in 5-chome. Albeit the street being occupied by various residents and shop owners, this neighborhood in particular was eerily inactive; in the noon, there were students waiting for buses at the stations and mothers with their bags of groceries, but at night, there was nobody. Not even a tail of a feline could be spotted. Tonight’s no surprise, either. Sawamura decelerates, as their vehicle is the only one on the road. “It’s not like it’s underdeveloped or anything,” he comments, “this is unusual.”

“Let’s park the car somewhere and walk around. There might be something.”

Sawamura obliges and parks the car by the side of the pavement. When they’re out, the desolate atmosphere seems to intensify, like the entire town is asleep. No stray dogs barking, no rustling of tattered plastic trash bags, no whirring motorcycles – nothing. Only silence prevails.

“Wait.” The officer gestures at him and lifts his head to examine a surveillance camera attached to a closed jewelry store beside them. “This camera isn’t on.”

“It’s a jewelry store.”

“Yeah.” Sawamura takes note of the shop on his phone. A jewelry store with a malfunctioning security camera – that’s weird. “Do you happen to know why this street isn’t yakuza territory?”

“Ah, no, not really. The borders we have today were drawn after the first yakuza war. But, well, occasionally organizations sell their lands, too, so it might’ve been Nekoma or Inarizaki’s territory before. I’m not certain.” They venture down the road – some have security cameras, some don’t. Ones that do either have ones which seem to be out of battery, out of service, or don’t film the road, but only the entrance. “These might be unrelated to the case.”

Sawamura continues to jot the locations down. “It never hurts to collect more information.”

_He has no gaps, seriously._

Suddenly, he halts in his steps. The other man frowns at him, but Sugawara rapidly whips out his arm and prevents Sawamura from advancing further. He could hear mumbling – a conversation – from afar. In the alley. The cop sends him a knowing nod. Inhaling once, they both hold their breaths and crawl into the darkness, as the voices become clearer and more audible.

“… _said_ I don’t _want_ them. My life has been ruined, and- and I have a daughter. I have to be clean. She needs me. My child still needs me, and I may have sought out for your help because I was, I was _tired,_ but I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can care for your brat and enjoy your life! Life isn’t black or white, not one over the other, what’s wrong with doing both? C’mon, you’re a regular, I can make it a little cheaper.”

One is a woman – perhaps in her late twenties, obviously an addict, but not the worst he has seen. He can’t see the man, only is back and his military beanie under the lamppost. “Stop calling me. My friend said she could help – with therapy, Tomoko’s education, and- I don’t need to rely on those. This is over.”

The dealer doesn’t seem too content about that answer. He cusses as he fumbles through his pocket. _A handkerchief – chloroform drugging._ “ _Sawamura_ ,” he hisses, as the dealer attacks the woman, thrusting the handkerchief over her nostrils – but Sawamura has vanished from sight.

When he swivels back to the scene, Sawamura Daichi is there, tackling the man to the concrete effortlessly. _Whoa, okay. That was fast. Usain Bolt quality._ “Sugawara, examine the lady for me.”

“Who the _fuck_ are you,” the beanie guy snarls as he flips and wriggles under Sawamura’s vice grasp. The latter doesn’t budge, not a centimeter. “A yakuza? Heard Miya Atsumu wasn’t around nowadays, shit –“

“Sawamura Daichi from the MPDI.” The culprit’s eyes bulge at the identification badge. “You’re under arrest.”

 _Straight out of a movie,_ Sugawara thinks, as he checks for visible injuries on the woman’s body. Though she has a thin stature, most likely underweight, she’s breathing. “She’s only lost her consciousness, but I don’t know how she collapsed. I’ll dial for an ambulance.”

“Thank you.”

His thumb hovers over the screen.

_Thank you._

When he stares at Sawamura, the man is speaking to another policeman on the phone. He notifies the staff on the 119 the approximate address and the condition of the woman.

“You should dash. My team will be coming here to retrieve this guy in ten minutes.”

“Okay.” He rises, and then nibbles on his bottom lip. “… I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah. Take care.”

_‘Thank you’ and ‘Take care,’ huh._

_(“Short or long, I’m sure they all have their own history to tell. Even you.”)_

###

“What has he confessed?”

Terushima and Futakuchi are viewing the exchange between Kambe and the arrested man keenly. Sawamura has just regressed from the hospital, ensuring that the victim was safely transported. “Inspector Kambe bribed him.”

“He what?”

Terushima chortles, forming an ‘ok’ sign with his fingers and waving it in the air, “Money, man. It’s the universal solution. The Inspector promised to bail the guy out of jail if he confessed to everything he knew. He transferred a hundred thousand to the dude’s account when he wasn’t persuaded. He’s been chipper and prattling on and on ever since, not that he’s being too informative.”

_“… I dunno a ton ‘bout how the system is structured. Like, I was hired to hoard as many clients as possible, nothin’ much else. Dunno who’s the top dog, since everythin’ was communicated through this other dealer. His name? Oh, he’s dead. He was shot by Miya Atsumu. I dunno where his corpse is; Inarizaki would’ve discarded it, burned it, no?”_

“He shouldn’t be lying,” Futakuchi supplies, “Hoshiumi-san attested that Miya Atsumu went on a rampage after Miya Osamu was ambushed last December. Though I don’t know the backstory of it.”

Kambe’s voice echoes from the speakers, “ _Then what’s the name of your organization?”_

_“Ah… what was it? Ku… Kuromaku. Yeah, yeah! That’s it!”_

“ _Kuromaku_ ,” Terushima reiterates, “Mastermind, eh.”

Futakuchi repositions himself so that’s he facing Sawamura. “I read your message about Itachiyama.”

“Oh, already? I was planning to discuss it with you tomorrow.”

“Nah, I had my suspicions as well. I gathered some data last week about the number of reported cases in both the east and west. Following Itachiyama’s defeat in the west, Inarizaki observed quite a dramatic drop in kidnapping rates until February – it’s an upward trend again now. The east’s cases have been gradually increasing throughout the years; there was no stagnant phase. This demonstrates that this organization – or _Kuromaku_ , I guess – are both in the east and west. If we deem Itachiyama to have been a part of Kuromaku, then this really can only mean one thing.”

The decrease in cases after Itachiyama’s defeat. A comeback after February. No apparent effect in the east.

“Organizations from both the east and west comprise Kuromaku.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kuromaku - 黒幕; it literally translates into 'black curtain,' and means mastermind, the one pulling the strings, etc. 
> 
> If you've read part 1, 5-chome of Nekoma should sound familiar to you. I'm finally re-mentioning this detail in part 2. I feel bad for bombarding you all with these plot progressions and different characters; there's just so much I want to tell, but there are stories that have to saved for other parts of this series. 
> 
> Now, some of you might remember my 'flashback' chapters from AFwL (I realize I keep referencing AFwL, so I apologize to readers who're only here for part 2. Not reading these notes won't affect your understanding of the plot for this story) - the next chapter is a flashback chapter. 
> 
> Chapter 6 - Sugawara Koushi, will come to you soon!


	6. Sugawara Koushi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm so sorry this chapter is late! I'm currently in midterms MONTH, and I'm cramming for all my exams. I wrote another SakuAtsu part for this series to compensate, I hope many of you enjoyed that, despite how trashy it was. 
> 
> This chapter focuses on Sugawara's past. I usually don't write flashback chapters for the main character, but I had to Sugawara, for the sake of the story. I think you'll understand as you continue to read. As usual, thanks to everyone reading, leaving kudos and comments, bookmarks, etc.! You're my motivation <3

_(“There are thousands of yakuza in Tokyo, ten thousand in Japan as a country. That’s dozens of lives. Short or long, I’m sure they all have their own history to tell. Even you.”)_

Their happiness lasted six years.

He doesn’t remember the first three, but he assumes that they were happy enough to stay together for another three.

The dynamite blasts in June, when he’s six and turning seven in five days – June eighth. It was a sweltering, humid Wednesday, even the summer cicadas silent, only the rattling echo of their outdated electric fan audible. His mother did not arrive until nine in the evening to pick him up from daycare. He remembers clutching the apron of his instructor – a prim, demure teacher in her mid-twenties – asking her over and over for the whereabouts of his parents. “ _They’ll be here soon, Koushi-kun,”_ she reassured him, but he genuinely believes that she had no clue either. She probably just wanted to go home.

It wasn’t his mother nor father that greeted him at the entrance of the daycare building. It was their neighbor – her name was Kyoko. Kyoko smiled at him and extended her hand. “ _Let’s go home, Kou-chan.”_

He didn’t know what was happening. The journey back to the Sugawara residence seemed longer than usual.

At home, his parents were sitting across each other at the dining table. His father’s classy merlot necktie was creased, like he fastened and loosened it repeatedly. His mother’s mascara and eyeliner were smudged, as if she rubbed her eyes while forgetting that she had makeup on. With a hasty ‘good night,’ Kyoko shoved him into the doorway and scrambled out.

“ _Sit down, Koushi.”_ His father ordered, his brows knitted. Koushi glanced back and forth – on the left was his mother, and on the right was his father.

“ _Come on, sweetheart,”_ his mother patted the chair next to her. The moment he took a step to advance, his father snarled,

“ _He’s my son as much as he’s yours.”_ And Koushi stopped mid-walk. “ _Koushi is capable of making his own decisions.”_

 _“He is six.”_ The polished turquoise nails of his mother dug into the leather cover of the chair, where he was supposed to sit. “ _And you don’t deserve to be his father. At all.”_

_“It was a mandatory gathering, Shizuka, I didn’t want to be there either! Just a couple women pouring our drinks, completely harmless – I’m a salesman, I need to attend those festivities to be noticed by the higher-ups. A housewife like you who doesn’t contribute to financing the family at all wouldn’t understand –“_

_“Then what was the receipt I found in your pocket? The motel –“_

_“Like I said, it’s all a misunderstanding –“_

_“I don’t want to hear about it –“_

He didn’t know various terms they hurled at each other, the implications of each biting rejoinder, and the minor backstories behind his father’s actions and his mother’s accusations.

He did know, however, somewhere deep in his heart – _oh. It’s over._

His mother, Sugawara Shizuka, was the one who got custody. He doesn’t recall the legal procedures; he spent the weekends at his grandparents’ house in the countryside until his mother returned for him. “ _You won’t meet daddy anymore,”_ she smoothened the wrinkles of his jacket as she spoke rather lightheartedly, “ _but that’s okay, isn’t it? You love mommy, don’t you, Koushi?”_

Somedays, he wonders what would’ve occurred had he said ‘no.’ Maybe things would’ve changed.

But Koushi said ‘yes.’

Sugawara Shizuka was a guileless, somewhat gullible woman.

Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she was blessed with her family’s wealth and an inheritance of her father’s lucrative company which she was meant to receive. ‘To lack’ was an extraneous concept to her life, practically alien. She went to a prestigious elementary school for the rich, to an all-girls junior academy, and earned her high school diploma at a private high school which charged an exorbitant tuition fee. Not that she kept track of the costs – it was never her responsibility.

If she trotted down that trail of gold as planned, she would’ve married a man from a similar background; a man who would’ve satiated her expensive needs, whether that were pink diamond necklaces or a seven-story mansion with a floral garden and a marble pool. She would’ve given birth to a daughter and a son, who would be raised just like her, innocent and ignorant of the rest of the world.

The reality is that she enrolled in an elective course at college, and coincidentally sat next to a man named Doumeki Akio. Akio was the third son from an average middle-class family, his mother a part-time restaurant waitress and his father a salesman with little hope for further promotion.

Shizuka fell in love with Akio.

Her parents were firmly against the marriage for the cliché reasons – _he has no future, you’re not compatible, you won’t be content._

The couple was adamant for the cliché reasons – _it’s true love, we can surmount those differences, we will prove that we can be happy together._

Shizuka becomes a Doumeki and is erased from the Sugawara household.

They had Koushi after two years.

They signed the divorce papers after six.

 _“Mommy can’t be home as mommy has work to do,”_ Shizuka caressed his cheek coaxingly, wearing modest attire – he had never seen his mother wear anything borderline modest prior to that morning. “ _You know how to get home, don’t you, Koushi? You’re now in first grade, after all.”_

They were in a new part of the city, where the rent was cheaper, where the floors were colder, and where the streets were more complex, more obscure. He ended up with a record of four dead ends when he reached their worn-down apartment with swollen feet.

His mother balanced three part-time jobs at a shopping mall, a clothing retail store, and a local supermarket. She was out five in the morning and back at eleven, her bun messy and almost undone, her foundation clumped together on her face. “ _Koushi, mind boiling the water? We can eat ramen for dinner.”_ Eventually, he excavated a ragged recipe book from the garbage dump and learned the simplest dishes – fried eggs, sauteed mushrooms, steamed jasmine rice – until he could master the trickier ones.

When he was in third grade, his daily routine was to wake up at four-thirty to cook his mother’s breakfast, prepare to go to school, cleanse the plates in the sink, classes, get back home and do the laundry, whip up a few varieties for dinner, finish his homework, and sleep. There were no holidays, no sleepovers with friends, nothing – just he and his mother in that cramped 1LDK apartment.

That was tolerable, actually. Cooking had its charms, and he was fond of the fragrant detergent that’d seep into his skin when he folded the laundry. He had his handful of friends at school, and the teachers liked him because he was mature for a boy his age.

Shizuka, however, began drinking.

Sometimes it was at home, and sometimes she regressed with a dizzying wobble, collapsing on the couch. “ _Koushi, Kou’hi,”_ she’d pronounce his name with a slur, fumbling for a lazily capped bottle of sake on the table. “ _C’mere, tell mom how school went.”_ He propped himself on the other side in his pajamas, the clock ticking to midnight. He had to wake up in four hours. _“Kou’hi, hmm?”_

He related short scenes and snapshots of his day, what a classmate joked about in math, or how he aced his science quiz. His mother only nodded as she drank, drank, and drank, her colored eyelids drooping as her back hunched further with each passing minute. After an hour or so, she was flopped over the table, her shoulders rising and falling. Koushi draped a futon over her and climbed into bed.

Those nights increased in frequency, being twice a week, thrice a week, every other day, then daily.

And with two years of Koushi rambling about himself, his mother decided to switch roles – and spilled her life to him for hours and hours, night after night.

 _“I don’ deserve this,”_ she choked on a sob, her face contorted in misery, “ _my life, my life, Koushi, do you hear? It wasn’t supposed t’ be like this. If I didn’t marry him, if only I didn’t…”_

And he’d listen to her, pretending as if it were the first time she was telling him all this. “ _I know, mom.”_ He’d console her, as tears streamed down her powdered skin, dry and lined with exhaustion.

At some point, she stopped thanking him for cooking breakfast. She didn’t ask how his day was. She didn’t know what classes he took. She couldn’t name even one of his classmates. She probably didn’t know how old he was, because she messaged him ‘happy birthday’ on some arbitrary day in June, never on the thirteenth. She staggered home drunk or irritated, sluggishly opening the fridge for fresh fills of alcohol, calling Koushi to the table to join her.

He listened. As seasons fleeted by, as his elementary uniform transitioned into his middle school gakuran, as he grew out of most of his clothes – he listened.

“ _I don’ deserve this,”_ he could predict what she’d say at each interval, after a particular sentence. She was frozen in that night from years ago, where she began to talk about herself. “ _Right, Koushi? I could’ve married the heir of some big-shot corporation, and we wouldn’t be here! We would be in a, a suite, an estate, in the center of Tokyo, where I would’ve been, where I, where,”_ she moaned into her hands. Koushi recited his, “ _I know, mom,”_ monotonously, as he thought about how to buy the groceries tomorrow so that they wouldn’t be over the assigned budget for the month.

He was drained.

Anyone would be, being guilted to accompany their mother as she wept, cursing her own fate – and doing that for hundreds of nights. He was only thirteen. He slept for four hours each day, twenty-eight a week. He couldn’t remember when his mother was home for dinner, sober. He couldn’t remember what she looked like without her makeup. He couldn’t remember the last time she posed a question for him to answer.

(“ _But that’s okay, isn’t it? You love mommy, don’t you, Koushi?”)_

Did he?

He wasn’t certain if he was even loved anymore.

On the fifteenth June of his life, he breaks.

“ _I don’ deserve this.”_

 _“Mom.”_ He sucked in a shaky breath.

“ _We wouldn’t be here. Yeah, Koushi? We wouldn’t be here.”_

 _“Mom,”_ his fists curled on the plastic surface.

“ _I jus’, I jus’ wanted t’ be happy.”_

 _“Mom!”_ The legs of table shook as his knuckles connected with the table. His mother went static as he breathed in, breathed out erratically. His head was pounding. He wanted to sleep. It was two o’ clock. He still had to wake up at four-thirty. “ _Just,”_ his knuckles ached, “ _stop. Please.”_

_(“You know how to get home, don’t you, Koushi? You’re now in first grade, after all.”)_

He was the ‘reliable’ and ‘diligent’ kid. The kid who peers recommended to be class rep, the kid who teachers entrusted their tasks with, the respectable fatherless kid who supported his mother, _that_ kid. The nice kid.

He was a kid, nonetheless.

“ _Yes, I know what your life would’ve been like, had you snagged that handsome CEO from your best friend. Yes, I know your childhood dream was to host weekly tea parties wearing gowns ornated with gems; yes, I know you don’t deserve any of this, any of this at all, when you chose the man you ultimately married, when you signed those papers years ago, when you ignored the reality we live in until you had no choice but to face it,”_ something pricked his eyes as he recalled the noon he buried his tiny hands into bags of rubbish, starved and sick of instant noodles. _“I know all of it. I’ve heard you.”_

Shizuka blinked at him, seemingly at loss for words. The resemblance was almost astounding – her silver-gray hair, her hazel-brown orbs, the mole beneath her eye – it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“ _Do you know what middle school I go to, mom?”_ She stared. “ _Who my friends are? Whether I even have friends? What I do at home without you? What I even wear other than my uniform? How old I am this year?”_

_“Koushi –“_

_“Why didn’t you give me up to dad if this wasn’t the life you wished for?”_

( _“You love mommy, don’t you –“)_

Love.

Love.

Damned love.

“ _Koushi, I love –“_

 _“No.”_ He griped, “ _No. Don’t say that. You can’t say that. Not if you are really a parent. Not if you legitimately care.”_

What was love, anyway?

He marched out of the dining room and turned off the lights. He didn’t rise at four-thirty. His mother didn’t wake him either. He slept, slept, and slept – slept more than he ever had during his whole lifetime. The sun was shining bright when he was out of bed, with a missed call from his homeroom teacher. He didn’t bother to check in with him. Instead, he slumped on the couch and watched TV. It was some comedy channel.

His mother didn’t come back that night.

The panic settled in five hours after midnight, when Shizuka didn’t answer his calls.

He contemplated on reporting it to the police. _She might be with her coworkers,_ he brewed up a number of possible explanations to soothe his nerves. _Or a bar, to cool off. She’s an adult. She can look after herself._

The telephone rang at seven. It was not Shizuka.

“ _Sugawara?”_

“Uh,” it was a gruff man. “Who is this?”

“ _Sugawara, yeah?”_

“Uh, yes, but who –“

The connection severed, and his grip around the receiver numbed with apprehension.

A few hours later, the door was kicked down with a baseball bat.

It was the yakuza.

His memory is quite hazy from thereon. He was beaten by four men, as their boss – or who he presumed was their boss – sat triumphantly on the couch, like he owned the place. When one of the lackeys yanked him under his armpit, his right view was obstructed by the blood flowing from a cut beneath his fringe. “Hey, lad.” The boss’s silver chain bracelet jangled as he waved his hand. “You know who I am?”

He didn’t know what hurt more – the stinging gashes and bruises strewn across his body, or the truth – the truth.

His mother had gotten a loan from the yakuza.

She committed suicide last night, when the yakuza pursued her for the compounded, unpaid interest. She had shot herself with their gun. They discarded her corpse in the mountains.

Her debt was now his to pay.

“Tomorrow.” The boss sneered, “We’ll be back tomorrow. Have a fifth of the cash ready by then.”

Two million yen.

A fifth would be two million yen, out of the ten million.

_Two million._

(He was fifteen. He no longer remembered his father’s complexion. There were no family photos in their albums. Did they even have an album? He was about to graduate middle school. He wanted to become a teacher when he was older. He liked English. He liked children. He despised alcohol. He was young. He wasn’t even twenty. Two million – two million. They lived on twenty-five thousand a month. Two million.)

His mother –

Sugawara Shizuka was –

Dead.

(“ _That woman, she fuckin’ bawled and pulled the trigger. Went through her skull. Selfish, yeah? People can be real selfish. Motherly love, that’s all bullshit, don’t you think so, kid?”)_

“Mom,” he inhaled the waft of his mother’s clothes in the wardrobe. They didn’t smell like her, but their weekend-sale detergent. Shizuka reeked of alcohol. That was her scent – the fizz of beer, the chemical flavor of manufactured sake, her caked foundation – that was who his mother was. A disillusioned woman who clung to a past she deserted and a future unattainable.

(“ _No. Don’t say that. You can’t say that. Not if you are really a parent. Not if you legitimately care.”)_

His mother was a woman who knew love.

She was loved by her friends, her family, her husband, until a number of her misguided decisions and shifts in emotions pierced her breast. She was loved. She wanted to be loved.

It struck Koushi then, that he had never told his mother that he loved her.

_But even if he did, what would’ve changed?_

Love was not the panacea to all problems. Love did not fix dysfunctional families. Love did not resolve world hunger and poverty. Love did not prevent wars or coup d’états. Love was not worth two million.

In a moment of insurmountable despair, people discover tranquility.

This was the case of Koushi, as he drifted through the alleys of east Tokyo. He couldn’t afford two million. It was an astronomical sum for a middle schooler. He was poor. He had fought with his mother a few hours before she killed herself. He didn’t cry. There were no tears shed. None for him, none for his passed mother. He stood on a bridge – a narrow, cement bridge, where the homeless would seek refuge during rainy season – and thought, _who’d collect my body if I killed myself tonight?_ It was either suicide or to have his organs sold in the black market. _I wonder if the teachers would ever report my absence to the cops._

Probably not.

“It’s not a spectacular view.”

This was the turning point of Sugawara Koushi’s life.

The day he met Ukai Ikkei – the Kumicho of Karasuno.

Of course, he didn’t recognize him then. He was just a grandpa wearing a black yukata – for a funeral. The elderly man folded his arms and smiled omnisciently, “Got into a fight, kid?”

“Kind of,” he shrugged – he didn’t examine his injuries yet. “It was very one-sided, though.”

“Looks like it. What, were they high schoolers?”

“No.” It was because he was certain he was dying that night, that he blathered on. Secrets were mere words when someone was dead. “My mom left me a debt of two million and killed herself yesterday. That’s just the interest, not even the principal. From the yakuza – I have to pay by tomorrow. I can’t.” He huffed, “I thought my life would get better. I saw an advertisement on television the other day, how when people persevere, they’ll be rewarded. There’s a Chinese adage for that, I think. I just thought – I’d be done. Living like that, I mean. Burning myself with splattered oil, doing laundry with icy water in the winter, those stuff you see in documentaries about low-income families. Some people believe it’s all scripted, to attract an audience. A gigantic pity party, absolutely hilarious. And then they casually tread on with their lives, with that mindset. They don’t know it’s real. They don’t know some people are spinning in that reality, unable to escape, because there are no opportunities, and if there _are_ opportunities there’s no time. No room. And none of them know that shit. None of them care – nobody does.”

Nobody cared.

Not even his mother.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” There was a solemn nod. Koushi nodded back. “The yakuza, eh? Do y’know which one?”

“Not a yakuza, so. No clue.”

“They all have tattoos, the ones in the east. The west not so much,” the man shook his arm; the sleeve of his yukata tumbled to his elbow as he raised it. There was a crow inked onto his skin. Koushi stared. “So? Was there a tattoo?”

He recalled a blurry tiger. “A tiger. A white one.”

“Shirotora, huh. Your mother loaned out from the nastiest lot.” A hum, “Two million? That’s it?”

“Uh, no. Ten million.”

“Ten million. Let’s see, let’s see…” there was a royal, eloquent tint in the old yakuza’s speech. Koushi was transfixed. “Ten years – a decade. How about that?”

He blinked. “Pardon, sir?”

“I’ll buy your debt. You can pay me by serving under the crows for the next ten years.”

“The crows?”

“We’re one of the seven families – above the white tigers. They’re a branch of the owls.” _Seven families, white tigers, branch, owls, what,_ “I’m Karasuno’s Kumicho, Ukai Ikkei.”

He introduced himself as Sugawara Koushi.

“Be a crow, Koushi.”

Fast forwarding two months: Azumane Asahi entered.

No joke, Koushi assumed he was twenty-three and a college dropout.

He was fifteen as well – and a coward.

“Oh my god.” Asahi trembled, “Oh my god, I’m so nervous.” For context, they were patrolling. “What if we bump into another organization? They’d be pros.” _Pro-yakuza._ Koushi was fairly sure there was no professional league for the yakuza. “ _Shit,_ what happens when we meet, like, Kuroo Tetsurou? Then what?”

“He’s our age.”

“He’s _ranked._ We’re lackeys, but he’s _ranked!_ I heard Akiteru-san say how he annihilated half a family overnight – do you think it’s true? He’s fifteen, isn’t he?” Kuroo Tetsurou – a fellow teenager, a ranked member of Nekoma with years of experience in the field, and Nekomata Yasufumi’s ‘Black Cat.’ That was all Koushi knew about the infamous Kuroo. “He’s from the Sendaya slums, along with Oikawa Tooru and… and others.”

“The Sendaya slums?”

“It’s an enormous slum located between Seijoh and Nekoma lands, where the brothels are. Many kids are recruited into the yakuza as a child there, apparently.”

“Huh,” _slums._ His neighborhood, though it couldn’t be categorized as wealthy, it wasn’t a slum, either. He might’ve been more fortunate than he presumed. “Why are you in Karasuno, by the way?” Asahi snapped to him like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh, you don’t have to answer if it’s personal. Kumicho Ikkei offered an exchange for my services and my debt, so I joined.”

“It’s not about me, really.” His companion laughed a little – too somber for a laugh. “I have a sister and a nephew. We were disowned by our parents, and I searched for a job which could pay the bills for the three of us, but it’s tough – employment is a predicament even for college graduates, so there’s no chance of employees hiring a middle schooler, you know?”

Koushi thinned his lips. “Sorry, that must be hard.”

“Nah. We’re better off without them.”

 _Them._ His parents.

(“ _My life, my life, Koushi, do you hear? It wasn’t supposed t’ be like this. If I didn’t marry him, if only I didn’t…”)_

“Won’t you regret it?”

Asahi glanced at him. “Regret?”

“Because this occupation, I mean,” was it even an occupation? Weren’t they criminals? To-be-criminals? The junk of society, the darkness of the city, “it’s not an honorable one. We might have to severe a finger if we want out.”

“Hm,” Asahi refocused on the road as they squished their path through a crowd of hostesses and drunkards. “I watched this French film when I was younger. Forgot the title, but it was French.” _French?_ “It was some noir-genre movie. I didn’t really get it. But there was this epic, cool mafia dude. With the fedora hat and revolver – an anti-hero, kind of? Rescuing civilians and teaming up with the protagonist.”

“Mm.”

“I liked that guy more than the main character. He lived in a gray world, doing gray work, with gray morals – but he saved people. He was, at least in my perspective, a good person. Makes me think that we don’t have to be bad people, just because we’re in a damned world. Not all of us have to be bad guys.”

_Not all of us have to be bad guys._

Koushi lingered on that statement.

 _How does the film end?_ He was about to question, until a senior roars at them to get back to headquarters.

(He still does not know the finale of the movie. He doesn’t want to.)

When he’s sixteen, he stopped one Kageyama Tobio from jumping off a building.

Tsukishima Akiteru and Tanaka Saeko got married and opened the Garage Bar in August that year. Koushi wound up chatting with Tsukishima Kei, a sarcastic adolescent who seemed to be born from a disparate womb from Akiteru. “Oh, so Ryu is your brother-in-law, huh?” Koushi had never seen a teenager emitting such extreme ire in his life at a single comment. “Ryu isn’t… he’s boisterous, but his heart is wholesome!”

Kei mocked derisively, “Wholesome.”

“You shouldn’t tease your elders.”

“Yessir.”

Tsukishima Kei was a brat, but he was an attentive one. He also did not get along with Tobio, who didn’t even know how to spell ‘attentive’ in kanji. Koushi was a proud witness of the progression of their relationship, as Kei taught Tobio how to read and write – _“Okay, but why the hell would we need two writing systems? Couldn’t they have been more efficient with their shit?” “Go to a Japanese linguistics professor if you want an accurate response for that, Kageyama.”_ – while they had their hurdles. Then, Kageyama requested (agonizingly) Tsukishima to teach him English, too, and Tsukishima (gruelingly) accepted, and they were back at square one with the alphabets. Despite all that, they become friends, and one of the reasons Kageyama chooses to live.

Eventually.

For the meantime, we’re back to where Koushi encountered Kozume Kenma at the Garage Bar.

Kozume Kenma was an individual every yakuza heard of, but also an enigma – the grandson of Nekomata Yasufumi, yet not the heir of Nekoma, the boy in veils – and he was there, perched on a stool with a PSP in both hands, engrossed with a game. The advent of their friendship was not extraordinary; they were compatible. Koushi was a conversationalist but was cautious of Kenma’s well-constructed, well-defined boundaries, and Kenma put in effort to maintain their connection, albeit minimal. Befriending Kenma led to a natural sequence of Koushi acquainting himself with the rest of Nekoma, including Kuroo Tetsurou.

Kuroo was not as intimidating as the legends painted him; he was above average for height, with unruly raven hair and angular features. Apart from the fact that he dressed like a hooligan, he resembled any other teenage yakuza in the industry.

At least, until they went on a joint mission together.

It was a temporary project between Nekoma and Karasuno, as two families in the alliance; their objective was to exterminate a minor organization lodged between the east and west.

He saw Kuroo shoot eighty-six men in the span of four hours.

Blood dribbled from Kuroo’s knuckles, his cheekbones, his ankle, his mouth, his neck – none were his. One gun. One sixteen-year-old. One black cat. Eight-six men – defeated. Killed. Koushi wasn’t able to land a hit; he didn’t have to, because Kuroo was ahead of him, as if he were a being from another realm. He will never be able to forget Kuroo, illuminated by the moon, tossing his gun to the sky as he stood at the center of a ring of bodies.

Was he terrified? Was he appalled?

He couldn’t tell.

But Kuroo Tetsurou didn’t seem human, at least then.

“Sugawara-kun,” he froze when Kuroo spoke. “Don’t be like that, I won’t bite.” Bite – more like devour. “You’re not fit to be one of us. Not when you can’t even pull a trigger on an opponent.”

Kuroo aimed eighty-six times. They were all perfect shots, instantaneous death.

“… How is it so easy for you?”

“Easy?” A chuckle reverberated through the stench of iron. “It’s not a videogame, Sugawara-kun, there are no specified levels of difficulty. It should be like breathing. A survival instinct.”

To be able to kill like breathing – that sounded contradictory, almost. “How can you say you’re human when life means so little to you?” It couldn’t be so black-and-white. It couldn’t be like breathing; it couldn’t an _instinct_. There had to be more weight to life. More significance.

(“ _I don’ deserve this, Koushi…”)_

Tetsurou regarded him with that of sympathy – envy. He was a puzzle. “There’s a price to every decision we make, Sugawara. We gain what we pay for, and we lose what we could’ve had as a consequence. I made a choice.”

“A choice?”

“To relinquish the human inside me.”

“… And what have you earned?”

“Freedom.”

“What have you lost?”

Kuroo smiled. It was a strained one, not his usual lopsided smiles. “Something more valuable than freedom.”

(He didn’t realize it then – how Kuroo looked at Kenma. The lack of physical distance between them, yet the wide chasm between their hearts. Like how a child would treat a treasure chest of gemstones, thrilled, curious, but somewhat afraid. It was transparent that they could be more. They should’ve been more. But Kuroo’s human had been vanquished, and Kuroo could not strip Kenma of his human, too.

Because that’s who Kuroo was enraptured with – Kozume Kenma, the human.

Koushi knows that now.)

“I hope you won’t replicate history, Sugawara-kun.”

The gun in Koushi’s holster was cold.

( _“Be a crow, Koushi.”)_

Asahi’s first kill was when he was nineteen. Sugawara held his ponytail for him as his friend puked into the toilet bowl. Kageyama’s was at eighteen, Tsukishima at twenty. Kageyama wasn’t perturbed – he was also from the Sendaya slums, along with Kuroo and Oikawa. Tanaka was in the organization because of murder to start with so he didn’t count; Nishinoya was one of their best.

Only Koushi – only Koushi.

He proved himself useful with his exceptional listening and social skills; he was the go-to mediator of the yakuza. He learned the names of the hostesses, the bar owners, the businessmen, the bouncers, and approximately two-third of those both in and outside of Karasuno’s borders. Due to his mild reputation, it was more facile to create networks and approach people; there was information one could only obtain through those that weren’t yakuza. He was the sole ‘social informant’ in the metropolis, both east and west combined, capable of collecting data that couldn’t be garnered through modern technology, which was why he was highly valued.

If there was a flaw, it was that he was a yakuza who did not kill.

Could not kill.

“There will come a future, Koushi,” Ikkei said as Sugawara poured sake into his cup, “where it will be inevitable, unavoidable, with no leeway to escape. As long as you’re in this industry.”

 _This industry._ It was a loaded noun. He was an adult – it had been five years since he branded himself as a crow. _This industry_ was a place where kids had no alternative but to grow into criminals, where some guardians sold their children off to the yakuza, and where some adults deteriorated into animals, beasts, monsters, shattering their own moral compass, which perhaps was nonexistent all along. It was a world where people hurt people, where people killed people, and where people weren’t people.

( _She committed suicide last night, when the yakuza pursued her for the compounded, unpaid interest. She shot herself with their gun. They discarded her corpse in the mountains_.)

 _Mom._ He thought of her wet face, smeared with smoky mascara. _Mom._

“But that future isn’t today, Kumicho.”

Ikkei put the rim of his cup to his lip. He had aged quite a bit over these five years. Regardless of who he was, Ukai Ikkei was Koushi’s savior. He would always be. “Someday, Koushi. Someday.”

It was Tsukishima who disagreed with that verdict, much to his disbelief.

“You’re fine as you are, Suga-san.” Tsukishima was more composed and less demeaning than his fourteen-year-old self, especially after teaching Kageyama. “It’s not like murder makes one a valid yakuza. There’s no standard to this job.”

“You think so?”

Tsukishima chomped a hefty chunk out of his strawberry shortcake. For someone with such a salty personality, he sure had a big sweet tooth. “We all do.”

“Huh.”

“You’re the one that demonstrated to us that a yakuza’s hit number isn’t what makes them a threat. You’re positive influence; it’s a beneficial lesson for those like Tanaka-san and Nishinoya-san.”

(He doesn’t want to kill. Not because of morals, not because of his conscience, but because of himself. Because who would, otherwise? Who would, who would, someone like him, someone who couldn’t even cry for their mother, someone who didn’t know how to love, someone like this, who would –)

“I don’t deserve such praise, you know.” He stirred his rice with a spoon, averting his gaze from his junior. “I’m not like that.”

Tsukishima frowned. “Like what?”

( _“… He lived in a gray world, doing gray work, with gray morals – but he saved people. He was, at least in my perspective, a good person. Makes me think that we don’t have to be bad people, just because we’re in a damned world. Not all of us have to be bad guys.”_ )

“A good person.”

His mother killed herself. His mother killed herself. His mother killed herself.

Sugawara Shizuka was murdered by the yakuza.

Sugawara Koushi was a yakuza.

A crow.

(“ _But that’s okay, isn’t it? You love mommy, don’t you, Koushi?”)_

He shut his eyes.

He’s a crow.

_(“There are thousands of yakuza in Tokyo, ten thousand in Japan as a country. That’s dozens of lives. Short or long, I’m sure they all have their own history to tell. Even you.”)_

He dreams of fireworks.

It was one of the last family vacations they had. He was five years old, scooped up in his father’s arms, his mother clapping at the burst of colors and flames in the sky.

He occasionally wonders if the tingle of warmth he felt then was love.

Sugawara Koushi doesn’t know how to love.

But Sugawara Koushi wants to be loved.

He wants to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems like an incomplete flashback, but it's meant to be that way. We're back to the plot in chapter 7!
> 
> \+ I did some basic future planning for this fic, and tbh it looks like it might be longer than And Foxes will Lie, but we'll see.


	7. The Second Yakuza War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first midterm phase is over! I was blown away to see all your feedback on the previous chapter - everyone's comments and kudos made me so happy, so a huge, huge thanks to all my readers! 
> 
> A fair warning, this chapter is LOADED. I know it's not long, but I can't even emphasize enough how important this chapter is to the whole story. I will slow down in the next chapter, but this chapter at least, will literally throw tons of plot points critical to the series. 
> 
> Oh, and also... guess who's back?
> 
> Read the chapter to find out :D

The shimmering mandarin morning dawn illuminates Division 1’s special investigations office, an orange streak stretched over the tiles. The flapping wings of pigeons, the standard rush hour traffic, and the hustling shuffle of pedestrians outside trickles into the room, through the parted windows. Futakuchi Kenji clucks his tongue and clamps the lock over the glass.

“Hey, I like the morning breeze – don’t close ‘em.”

Futakuchi scowls. “You’re hardly ever here, Terushima-san.”

“Don’t be so crude, it’s not cute.” Terushima Yuuji pulls out his chair and spins on it. “Both you and Sawamura-san work too much. Breaks are beneficial for your mental health, y’know?”

“Well, you aren’t contributing at all to the investigation, Terushima-san. Isn’t it about time that you quit taking breaks?”

“That’s no way to talk about your senior.”

“We’re technically the same age; I only speak with honorifics because of your rank.”

“So blunt.” Terushima chuckles, “And I must correct you – it’s not that I’m not contributing, it’s simply that I’m not needed yet.”

Futakuchi presses his ballpoint pen against his forehead, agitated. “We’re _lacking_ members on this team to begin with because the authorities want this to be an undercover investigation. We _need_ more people on the force, and you have the _nerve_ to say,” inhale, “never mind. You do you.”

“I get what you mean, but,” Terushima jumps out of his chair and lands on both feet, “it’s true. We’ve all been recruited for a reason, and I’m communicating that my _reason_ for being here isn’t for the investigation. I’m too flashy for undercover, don’t you think?”

Futakuchi seems to consider that. Terushima _is_ flashy for undercover. He’s practically the flashiest cop in the precinct. If anyone’s fit for undercover, it isn’t him. “Then why did Kambe-san request for your presence on the team?”

“Because he probably knows a lot more than he looks.” Kambe Daisuke. Kambe Pharmaceuticals. The mass murder incident eighteen years ago. “Just like how you know more than you act.”

(“ _I know it’s selfish. But you’re the only person I can trust, Kenji.”)_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Terushima Yuuji stares. Futakuchi Kenji stares back.

Terushima, however, shrugs and smiles. “If that’s how you want to be, I don’t care. It’s none of my business. But just be aware,” Futakuchi flinches as the blonde lunges towards him swiftly, soundly. His pierced lip is a centimeter and a half away from Futakuchi’s jawline – he mumbles, “people will find it suspicious if you never leave this office.”

“… Field work isn’t my strength.”

“How’d you know that you ought to look into Itachiyama before Sawamura-san messaged you?”

“Intuition.”

The other hums and nods. “Sure.” Then, snatching his latte on the desk, Terushima skips to the door, “When I see you every now and then, Futakuchi, it’s almost as if your goal isn’t to apprehend the yakuza.” Terushima Yuuji – a detective of authentic intuition. Or is it actually deduction? Futakuchi can’t tell. He’s a befuddling man.

“What’s your objective, Terushima-san?”

“To live as I wish.” Terushima raises his hand, “Good luck, Futakuchi.”

The lock clicks.

He slumps on the battered couch in the corner, gazing at the fan rotating slowly on the ceiling.

(“ _I can’t forgive that man. I’ll never forgive that man. He isn’t even a man – that man is a beast. A phantom. I won’t forgive him. I want nothing to do with him. So – you remember me. I can trust you. You’ll be the only person to remember who I used to be. That cursed man’s son. That sorry woman’s child. Your friend. I can trust you, yes, Kenji? I can trust you to not forget.”)_

( _“When I see you every now and then, Futakuchi, it’s almost as if your goal isn’t to apprehend the yakuza.”_ )

_It’s because it isn’t._

Futakuchi Kenji cannot forget.

_If this case is solved, then maybe I finally can._

###

“I’m failing to comprehend why this is mandatory.”

“Women like gossip.”

“This isn’t really gossip, per se.”

“They like to fawn, okay? You have to feed them if you want something from them.”

Sawamura peers dubiously at Sugawara’s arm hooked into his. _His biceps are touching mine, that feels weird. He does have great biceps, but._ “What can they tell us?”

“If you want tea, you go to the brothels. It’s common sense. Come on, don’t be shy. You can’t tell me you’re a virgin with that body.” _Wait, that sounded a lot less flirtatious in my head._ “From a completely neutral perspective, of course. You’re… muscular. Fit. Whatever.”

“I’m not,” the cop grunts, “fine, then. When did you say our first date was?”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Why Christmas Eve?”

“It’s more romantic.”

“How did we meet?”

“I spilled a cup of coke over your shirt and accidentally asked if I could lick it off instead of saying that I’d buy you a new one.”

“Why the heck is our initial encounter so inappropriate?”

“There’s also the version where _you_ spill coke over my shirt and do the same thing, if you prefer that.”

“Let’s go with the first one.”

“Sure.”

“Am I not a cop?”

“You’re a conman.”

“Why am I conman?”

“You don’t look like one, is why. That stirs the ladies up.”

“I really don’t relate with the ladies here.”

“It’s fine, because I do.” Sugawara grins at Sawamura, who is squinting at the ominous stairwell to the brothel. A sign that reads ‘ _Kabukicho’_ (although the lightbulb for ‘o’ is broken) shines over them. They’re in Seijoh territory, at the mouth of the Sendaya slums – some call it the neighborhood of the prostitutes, and others deem it as an oddly holy ground, with it being the birthplace of numerous legendary eastern yakuza members – Oikawa Tooru, Kuroo Tetsurou, although slightly less renowned, Akaashi Keiji, and the rising Blackhorse, Kageyama Tobio.

To Sugawara Koushi, it is the center of his business, where an abundant amalgamation of information exists.

“Let’s go.”

Upstairs, on the third floor of the edifice, is the lobby of the brothel, _Kabukicho_. It’s more spacious and populated than other bars and brothels in the district, though definitely not the largest. Colorful, dim lamps glow throughout and several yakuza lackeys whom Sugawara does not recognize have a woman pouring beer into their glasses, cackling and boisterous.

“Oh, Sugawara-kun.”

“Ah, Shimizu.”

A rather gorgeous, voluptuous woman in a tight onyx dress greets them with a pipe between her gloved fingers – also black. Her name is Shimizu Kiyoko. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here. I heard about your, hm, quandary.”

“It sounds all nice when you use such big vocabulary.”

“I thought you would’ve left the family.”

“It’s only a demotion.” Sugawara responds, although he knows that Shimizu isn’t the kind of person to fall for his façade. “Is anyone free for a conversation?”

Kiyoko scans the lobby, “Sachi-chan and Reiko should be free. They like gossip. And men,” she scrutinizes Sawamura, “the more the merrier, they chant.”

“No stealing, he’s my boyfriend.”

“How affronting, I’m not intrigued by any man. But also,” she pats Sugawara’s shoulder, “congratulations, I suppose. I was afraid you were still sleeping with Oikawa.”

“Why does _everyone_ still talk about that?”

“Not a lot of individuals are so gallant and daring to be in bed with Oikawa Tooru, especially after, you know,” Kiyoko twists her hand, pensive. “Iwaizumi Hajime.” Accurate. Sugawara wonders to this day how he wasn’t murdered that night. “Anyway. I hope the conversation is productive.” Pause, “Oh, Mr. Boyfriend. What’s your name?”

“Kudou Heisuke.”

“Is that so. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Kudou-san. Enjoy your stay.”

“Likewise.”

Once Kiyoko is out of earshot, Sugawara sniggers, “Kudou Heisuke, huh. An expert conman.”

“It’s my uncle’s cat’s name.”

“Random, but okay.” He tugs at Sawamura’s arm, dragging them both to the secluded staff room where Sachi and Reiko are. “Keep in mind, these girls are sharp, and they _will_ know when you’re a half-assed actor. You need to _ooze_ with affection and fondness and honey. Understood?”

“You’re describing it as if I’m a chocolate lava dessert.”

 _That’s not too far off._ “Act like you’re in love, yeah? This is a part of the investigation.”

“I thought _you_ were the one who wanted to lick coke off of me.”

“I’m so talented an actor that I should’ve been casted by Hollywood. Come on, I know I don’t have Jesus Jones arms and thick thighs or abs like you, but I’m attractive! Just act like you love my face!”

Sawamura blinks at his face. “Like I love your face, huh.” _I’m feeling judged. I always believed my face was alright. Isn’t it alright?_ “Okay, then.”

_I mean, I, without doubt, like his face._

It’s no secret that Sugawara is a sucker for good-looking men. Who isn’t? He’s slept with Oikawa for extremely valid reasons, including his drop-dead beautiful face.

_Seriously, if he weren’t a cop –_

Sachi and Reiko are a pair of chatterboxes once Sugawara and Sawamura enter. “Oh my gosh, Kou-chan, it’s been forever!” “How have you been, how have you been? What’s being demoted like? Sucks, doesn’t it?” “Is it just me or are you in dire need of a haircut? Look at these split ends!” And in sync, “ _Wow_ , who’s that with you?”

The bomb:

“My boyfriend.”

Sachi squeals and Reiko repeatedly slaps Sugawara on his chest, freaking out. If Sawamura is overwhelmed by their reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Well, are you gonna spill or what?”

“If you girls share a couple stories first, yeah.”

“Oh, the usual.” Sachi guides them to the sofas – Reiko takes out frozen cups and a carton of juice from the fridge. “What do you want to hear?”

“Anything will do. What’s going on here nowadays?”

Reiko pours them apple juice; Sawamura unhooks his arm from Koushi to reach for two. “Hm… oh, yes. There’s been a rumor about Tooru.” There were always rumors about Oikawa, but Sugawara nods. “Apparently, he has a kid.”

He spits his apple juice.

“He _what?”_

Oikawa Tooru with a kid – there’s absolutely zero chance of Sugawara _not_ hearing about news this huge before. Sachi purses her glossy lips. “Yeah, not a lot of people seem to know – I’ve only heard it in passing, too. Someone has seen Oikawa and his aide walk out of Seijoh headquarters with a boy. Maybe around five years old?”

“How long ago was this?”

“Oh, it’s been a while. January?”

Reiko corrects, “December, Sachi. It was last December.”

December. More than three months, then. The fact that nobody has been discussing this matter implies one thing – Seijoh does not want anyone to know. Or Oikawa, specifically. _If the boy is five, that means he’s had him when he was twenty. But,_ “Is he Oikawa’s son?”

“No idea. Ah, but the person said the kid didn’t resemble Tooru at all, so maybe not. Probably not?”

 _Oikawa doesn’t like women. Also in terms of sexuality, but he doesn’t like women in general. The chances that he’s impregnated one is low. If there’s a subgroup of ‘women’ Oikawa is weak against, then that would be…_ “Just curious – was Oikawa around Seijoh often last December?”

“Hm, no.”

Sawamura butts in, “How can you verify that?”

“Oh, he rides this car. A Mercedes. There’s only one route to the Seijoh headquarters, you see, and you have to pass this building. We can basically check whether Tooru is in town or not – not that it pays.”

 _Not in Seijoh. A kid. A high possibility of a woman being involved. The drugs going around._ “Thanks, Sachi, Reiko. That was helpful.”

“Alas, alas!” The women huddle up and glimpse expectantly at Sawamura. “A boyfriend! You’ve _never_ had a boyfriend in ages, Kou-chan! How did it happen?”

“Ah, you know,” in his periphery, the policeman is sipping on his juice. “Was at a fast-food joint. Spilled coke on him. Was going to compensate for his spoiled shirt, but then I blurted out whether I could lick his abs, is all.”

“Well, I would lick that, too.”

“Hey, hey, my boyfriend. Oh, he’s Kudou Heisuke, by the way. A conman.”

“Wow, the dream guy.”

“I know.” For a second, he sees how Daichi’s brows twitch in confusion.

“When was your first date?”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Ew, that’s so vanilla and sugary. Gross.”

“So,” Reiko beams mischievously, “what do you like about him?”

_What do you like about him?_

Well. He has not prepared an answer to that. “Uh,” he eyes the cop. _His body. I like his body a lot. He’s a very aesthetically pleasing man. Aesthetic, yes._ “His…” Sawamura blinks at him.

( _“I’m sure they all have their stories to tell. Even you.”)_

He swallows.

“He’s nice.”

Sawamura snorts. Sachi and Reiko whine and complain, and Sugawara reddens at Daichi’s response. _This guy fucking snorted._ Frankly, ‘he’s nice’ was not the best answer he could’ve provided, but a snort – _a snort,_ “Then what about you, Kudou-san?” _Yeah, what about you, Kudou-san?_ Sugawara glares pointedly at the self-assigned conman, Kudou Heisuke.

“Well,” Sawamura puts his juice on the table, and then gradually turns to Sugawara. The motion is paced, purposeful. He’s the person Koushi has met at the Garage Bar, that evening in early March. Smooth, suave, wearing a smile.

_Right – right._

When they first met, Sawamura was smiling.

It was a smile you’d fall for.

That sort of smile.

“He’s thoughtful,” ‘Kudou Heisuke’ mumbles, “not thoughtful as in behavior, but who he is – he selects words with much care. He doesn’t make it obvious, though, and that’s what’s so admirable about him.” Sugawara has to grit his teeth to prevent his jaw from descending to the core of Earth. “He’s funny, too. Really adept at spicing up a mundane conversation. He laughs a lot – I think it’s cute.” _He what?_ “Oh, and,” Sawamura’s fingers lace into his. “I like holding his hand.”

Sugawara gapes at their joined hands.

Sawamura chuckles, “He gets ridiculously flustered when we do.”

“Uh, I, er –“

“Told you.”

They’re holding hands.

They’re holding hands.

They’re holding –

He’s not entirely solid on what unfolds from thereon. Sawamura explains to the ladies how their first date on Christmas Eve was – which was not in their script, by the way – as Koushi sits there, dumbfounded. Eventually, Sachi and Reiko escort them out when they have their fill, and Sawamura doesn’t release his grasp. All that rings within his mind is, _what the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck._

(He does not recall that _he_ was the one who brought up this plan.)

“Oh, Kou-chan, it almost slipped from me,” Sachi grabs his sleeve, “there was a lackey shot in Nohebi this morning. Kuguri Naoyasu? If that’s useful.”

“A lackey?” Him, then Kuroo, and Matsukawa. All shateigashiras.

“Yeah. Four bullet wounds.”

“… Alright, thank you.”

Sachi trots into the brothel. Sugawara snaps out of his shock and processes the new puzzle piece. _The victims so far were all shateigashiras. Was that not the pattern? Four bullet wounds, shateigashiras? Why shoot a lackey? To rouse Nohebi? Kuguri should be on Daishou Suguru’s faction…_

“I see why Hollywood didn’t cast you.”

The gears in his brain stutter upon the statement. “Excuse _you_.”

“’He’s nice,’ really?”

“’I like his body’ seemed too shallow, okay?”

“Like ‘he’s nice’ is more profound.”

They journey out of the building, back into Sawamura’s car. Sugawara buckles his seatbelt and groans. “I was at loss. Besides – what the hell were _you_ doing?”

“Oozing with fondness and affection and honey.” Sawamura says plainly, “I wasn’t expecting you to flush so intensely. Had to brew up a convincing excuse off the bat. Have you never held hands with someone before?”

“Of course I have!” _Not that I remember when, but I certainly have._ “You could’ve just,” Sugawara throws his head back and sighs. “No, it’s nothing.” There’s a truck load full of questions he’d ask, but the cop wouldn’t answer the majority of them.

“So, what did you learn from them? I hope this paid off because that was arduous.”

 _Just arduous? It was torturous._ “Oikawa having a kid – that opens many paths, reveals a number of doors. Not that it’s _his_ kid – it’s probable that he’s someone else’s. Oikawa doesn’t like women.”

“He can sleep with one even if he doesn’t, no?”

“No, I can vouch for that. He’s a guy that would slice out his innards than to embrace a woman. He has his reasons.” They circle the slum with no destination, as Sugawara continues. “But there’s a niche of women who Oikawa is weak for.”

“A niche?”

“Mothers.” Sawamura frowns at that. “To be more detailed: low-income, prostitute mothers, with no husband. He’s from the Sendaya slums, after all. His mother was one of them. A prostitute.” Most children originating from the slums shared similar lives – Oikawa, Kuroo, Akaashi, Kageyama – theirs weren’t all too disparate either. “I’m assuming that Oikawa took in that kid from one of those mothers.”

“Huh, what a philanthropist.”

“No. I doubt it’s because he pitied the kid. Oikawa may have a soft spot for women like his mother, but he’s not like that. Besides, even if that were the case, he wouldn’t hide the kid. He’s a vain, prideful man. If Oikawa is hiding something, it means there’s more.”

“Hiding…” Sawamura scratches the steering wheel, “from what? The west? The cops?”

Oikawa bribed the dogs within Seijoh; he wasn’t apprehensive of the police in the slightest. The west? “The east.” Sugawara realizes, “He’s hiding something from the alliance.”

( _“Oh, he rides this car. A Mercedes. There’s only one route to the Seijoh headquarters, you see, and you have to pass this building. We can basically check whether Tooru is in town or not – not that it pays.”_ )

Frequent travels out Seijoh. The east, the west. The kid. A mother.

“He was in the west.” _That would make sense. If he had to conceal the kid’s origins – because if people know that the kid isn’t Oikawa’s, they’ll attempt to figure out who’s kid it is,_ “The kid is from the west.”

“Wait, but I thought the east and west don’t interfere with each other?”

“We don’t,” _though the war might alter that,_ “hey, inform your team – tell them to search all security cameras in the west, all cameras by bars and brothels. The west doesn’t have a red-light district, or a street dedicated to such businesses, so it’s doable. I think we’re getting somewhere.”

Sawamura hums, “Kuromaku is an organization consisting of individuals from both the east and west. Are you insinuating that Seijoh might be one of them?”

_Kuromaku, the black curtain, the mastermind._

It suits Oikawa.

_(“Why did it have to be me, not Ennoshita?”_

_“I missed you, maybe.”)_

Even so, “Perhaps.”

He hopes his theory is bogus, trash, absolute rubbish.

He really does.

###

Polished floorboards, classic white wallpaper, a lengthy ovular meeting table, and nine men in black.

This is west Tokyo, Shiratorizawa headquarters – an emergency council.

“Kita.”

“Yes, Kumicho Washijou?”

“Where’s Kurosu?”

“In Hawaii. Recuperation is vital for longevity, he said.”

Washijou grumbles under his breath. “Out of all months of the damned year.”

“Well, March is the ideal month for vacations, ya know- ow, ow, _ow_ , Kita-san, yer steppin’ on my foot, my _foot_ –“

The snakes, the foxes, and the eagles – the three families, the three pillars of the west. “We haven’t had one of these since, what? Did we ever have one?” Kumicho Oomizu of Nohebi barks out into laughter; nobody laughs along with him. “And it seems like there’s a fresh addition to the foxes. I must admit, he does not appear to be a fox.”

“He’s a member who joined us last December. Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

A man with a black surgical mask, black leather gloves, and dark curls bows curtly to the superiors in the vicinity.

“Oh, the Itachiyama lackey.” Daishou Suguru, the wakagashira of Nohebi, sports a serpentine smirk. “Ah, my bad. Itachiyama is history, aren’t they? Must be traumatic.”

“Man, what a jerk.” Miya Atsumu – one of the Miya Twins – mutters.

Daishou scowls. “Pardon?”

“Nothin’, nothin’ – Kita-san, please stop steppin’ on my foot.”

“We’re going on a tangent. Shouldn’t we resume the council?”

“Ah, yes, Kenjirou. What were we on?”

Shirabu Kenjirou flits to his laptop. “How Ushijima-san was ambushed only two hours ago. Four bullets. It’s identical to how Sugawara Koushi from Karasuno, Kuroo Tetsurou from Nekoma, and Matsukawa Issei from Seijoh were beaten.”

“Don’t forget our dear Kuguri.”

“Yes, Kuguri Naoyasu from Nohebi, too.” Shirabu turns to his Kumicho, “The issue is what we do from hereon. The east has been hesitant in declaring war due to the consequences. They won’t believe in our innocence.”

“If we’re innocent, that is.” Remarks Semi Eita, Ushijima’s temporary replacement. “Can we guarantee that nobody in this room attacked those shateigashiras? There are a few candidates.”

Atsumu grins crookedly. “Why are ya glowerin’ at me like that?”

“Because Wakatoshi isn’t the one.”

“Harsh. Doesn’t mean I’m the one.”

“Semi-san,” Kita interjects, “with all due respect, while Atsumu can indeed be problematic,” ‘ _Kita-san, yer supposed to be on my side!’_ “He is not as wasteful and inefficient to use four bullets to eliminate an opponent.” ‘ _That doesn’t change yer point that I’m problematic!’_

Semi rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

“The optimal solution would be to negotiate with the east.” Washijou tongues his cheek. “The dominant opinion, however, is that we should settle this with war. Despite how we might feel, we can’t afford to tarnish the reputation of the west.”

Oomizu hums in agreement, “The tension amongst the lackeys, too – they’re enraged. I can imagine how it wouldn’t be much different in the east. Losing a shateigashira or wakagashira is equivalent to losing a commander – that alone is sufficient to anger troops of soldiers.”

“Shouldn’t we pin down who shot Ushijima before that?”

“That alone wouldn’t dissolve the bloodthirst in the air. We can’t even track who gunned the three from the east, after all.”

“We shouldn’t forget what occurred after the first yakuza war.” Kita asserts, grave. “Most organizations fell apart. The seven families suffered immensely, with the exception of Nekoma, Inarizaki, and Shiratorizawa, and we didn’t escape unscathed either. A handful of upper echelon authorities were arrested and charged. We cannot promise that when or how we’d recover if another war happens.”

“The war has already begun, Kita,” Daishou replies, “it’s been going on for weeks. We merely haven’t officially announced it yet. The lackeys are fighting against other lackeys. We’re having shateigashiras and wakagashiras aimed for left and right. Who knows, maybe you’re next.”

“Or ya, _Daishou-san_.” Atsumu sneers.

Daishou lifts his chin, “Arrogance is a sin, Miya. Wasn’t your brother in a coma for some time because he was, ah, _careless_ , too? I advise you twins to hone your sense of humility.”

Atsumu flares – his chair clatters as his fists collide into the surface. His orbs radiate fury and venomous gold. “Atsumu.” Sakusa’s fingers are around Atsumu’s wrist. The latter gulps – flicks to Sakusa once – and fixes his chair and obliges.

“You crossed a line there, Suguru.” Kumicho Oomizu reprimands, and Daishou shrugs, nonchalant. “I apologize. His personality is… well, fitting of the snake. Returning to the topic – I acquiesce with Suguru’s claim, that the war has commenced. We have no alternative but to fight; we cannot control the thousands of lackeys within the alliance that roam Tokyo. It might be safer this way, to be candid. We can openly protect, and openly fight.”

Washijou is silent. He is the sole yakuza member who has experienced the first yakuza war with those in his generation. The one who has endured the Dark Ages of the yakuza – the Yakuza Famine, where the yakuza of Tokyo had hit rock bottom – no money, no men, no honor, and no fame. Only borders and seven families remained, as well as the divide between the east and west.

Another war.

A war which cannot be stopped.

A war which begins must meet its conclusion.

Washijou rises.

“The western alliance of Tokyo, today, declares war against the eastern alliance of Tokyo.”

The second yakuza war – March 23rd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn. 
> 
> (Lmao)
> 
> The ninth person in the meeting was Hiroo Kouji from Nohebi. He just never talked.


	8. Flames, Fireworks, Festivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient, everyone! I think I'll be busy until break, but I will try my best to keep up the weekly updates. Your feedback always drives me to continue this story - it's always so awesome to hear from you guys! I hope you all had a nice February as we trickle into March. Without further ado, let's jump right in!
> 
> EDIT: THANK YOU FOR HELPING THIS FIC REACH 100 KUDOS!! YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST ♡
> 
> Enjoy :D

When Asahi was nineteen, he shot a man.

Despite his outstanding timidity and almost chronic anxiety, Asahi was a dexterous fighter – a standard power type much like Bokuto Koutarou, rather than those like Kuroo and Oikawa. Sugawara personally looked forward to Asahi’s training hours. The particles in the atmosphere would bristle and shift directions as Asahi aimed the revolver at the target; he reveled in the suspense of that moment. He instinctively knew that Azumane Asahi’s name would crawl over the expanse of Tokyo in the future.

Of course, a flat target and a breathing, living being were completely unique entities, different in nature.

It was to shield Koushi.

They were fleeing from the enemy’s basecamp when a mid-tier lackey caught them. They weren’t outnumbered, but were inexperienced fledglings of the crows. Koushi could not shoot – so, Asahi did. “ _Don’t shoot,”_ his friend hissed, his face wan and blue. There was a twitching corpse on the ground. “ _Don’t shoot, Suga.”_

Asahi gagged on stomach acid for the rest of the night as Koushi held his ponytail. After each strangled heave, he felt something muddy and bitter pool in his gut. Asahi’s hair was course in his grasp. _Asahi_ had killed. Asahi had killed. For Koushi. For _Koushi_.

His friend did not initiate a conversation for around a week following the incident. They did not chat, did not dine together, and were not assigned to missions. When Asahi finally opened his mouth, there was a cigarette between his lips. Asahi never smoked.

“ _Don’t beat yourself over it, Suga.”_ He doesn’t remember what kind of expression he had then, but Asahi laughed hoarsely when he saw it. “ _How long do you think I’ve been partnered with you? You overthink stuff a lot, you know. It shows.”_ A thin veil of smoke hugged Asahi’s body. It might’ve been the mist; it was a humid evening. “ _One of us had to do it. Better me than you, right?”_

 _“Don’t.”_ He balled his fists. “ _You don’t, you’re not, you too, Asahi –“_

 _“I know. I don’t like it. I’m not Kuroo. And I wanted to avoid it as much as possible. Like you.”_ Asahi flicked off the ash threatening to fall. “ _But I hate the idea of you killing more. That’s all there is to it.”_

_“… Asahi.”_

_“Once you pay off your debt, reconsider your options.”_ The smoke stung his eyes. “ _You still have a chance, Suga. How many years do you have? Five? Six? I’ll be around as your partner so that you won’t ever have to shoot a person.”_

_“Asahi, listen –“_

_“We don’t both have to dirty our hands.”_

_“You don’t owe me anything, Asahi.”_

_“Sure I do.”_ Asahi huffed, “ _You were there for my sister and nephew. Tai adores you. You did a lot more than you give yourself credit for.”_ When they were recruited, Asahi couldn’t bear the sheer pressure of having to wield arms. They were now there on the rooftop, looming over a city they were a part of but not proud of. They were there, gray. “ _I’ll protect you, Koushi.”_

No. They were both _meant to be_ gray. “ _Don’t spout crap.”_

 _“Don’t be like that. You’re our hope.”_ Hope – hope. “ _You’re proof that we all could’ve been something else – someone else, had we been granted a choice, had we not relented.”_

( _“I made a choice.”_

_“A choice?”_

_“To relinquish the human inside me.”_

_“… And what have you earned?”_

_“Freedom.”_

_“What have you lost?”_

_Kuroo smiled. It was a strained one, not his usual lopsided smiles. “Something more valuable than freedom.”_ )

Koushi pondered over that exchange till this day. Had Kuroo really made a choice, or had he been driven to a corner without an alternative? Had he chosen freedom and liberation, or simply a more spacious cage to trap himself in?

“ _I’m nothing like hope.”_ He was nothing grandiose as hope. He was a feeble creature. He was guilt-ridden. He was just, “ _I can’t be hope.”_

_“You are. By being alive like that – by being you. They always say as yakuza, we are bound to take more lives than save even one. But you’re different. You will always save more lives than take. You’ve always been that way.”_

Had he?

Sugawara Shizuka had committed suicide with a yakuza’s gun. Sugawara Koushi was Sugawara Shizuka’s son. Sugawara Shizuka had loved her son. Sugawara Koushi became a yakuza. Sugawara Koushi held a gun.

He was breathing in a world that stripped his mother of her dear life.

He was the world itself, gray.

Koushi never saved anyone. He wasn’t able to. He wouldn’t be able to.

“ _… Who’d ever protect you, if you protect me?”_

Asahi chortled at that. “ _Who knows.”_

Six months later, Nishinoya Yuu crackled into Azumane Asahi’s life like a thunderstrike.

“A _war_?”

“Inarizaki butchered the white tigers yesterday with four members and passed on a message through one of the survivors. ‘Kumicho Washijou has declared the advent of the second yakuza war.’”

“Shirotora with _four_ members?” The white tigers were a branch family of Fukurodani and had three hundred lackeys. Counting all authorities, they had three hundred and forty-two. Three hundred and forty-two with four? That wasn’t even realistic.

Asahi pulls on a pair of navy socks. “Miya Atsumu, Miya Osamu, Suna Rintarou, and Sakusa Kiyoomi. Kita Shinsuke is currently the chief of Inarizaki, with Kumicho Kurosu absent. And we all know…”

“… That if the Miya twins moved, Kita Shinsuke gave the orders.” Of course. The Miya twins were – _are_ – loyal to Kita. It has been a lasting irregularity, a conundrum in the industry; why do the Miya twins pledge their allegiance to Kita, out of all people? Kita is a dependable leader, but he is not the shrewdest, neither the most charismatic yakuza. And yet, everyone is aware that the twins, especially the older brother, Atsumu, obeys Kita’s commands almost religiously.

Not that it matters now.

A family was eliminated. This signaled war.

It is war.

“What’s Kumicho Keishin’s counter-strategy for this?”

“He hasn’t said, but we can’t back out either. Fukurodani will definitely jump into action tonight, whether it’s against Nohebi or Inarizaki or Shiratorizawa. They need reinforcements.” Asahi sighs into his palm, “Ushiwaka was shot, and I’m guessing that Shiratorizawa suspects Bokuto. With Kuroo out of commission, there’s not a lot of people that can challenge that monster head-on.”

Sugawara clucks his tongue. They’re at Asahi’s. “Bokuto’s not the sort of guy who’d confront his opponents in the dark.”

“Well, we can claim that because we’re acquainted with him. The west isn’t.”

“Fair.” _But even then, would Kita overlook that? Would Kumicho Washijou? Would Nohebi?_ While he understands that the roots of this war aren’t the decades worth of tension between the east and west but rather the bumbling wrath of the lackeys – a boiling pot of unconstrained fury, thoughtless, cumbersome – is it worth the price they’d have to pay? _What am I saying – of course it is._ For reputation, for appearance. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Asahi knots his shoelaces. “If the west were willing to negotiate, then Kumicho Keishin might’ve called for you, but now that the war’s already started, there’s nothing you can do.”

_There’s nothing you can do._

( _“Don’t shoot, Suga.”)_

 _If I pulled the trigger then,_ “Don’t die.”

“Well, I can’t tackle the Miya twins if they come for me.”

“Bring Nishinoya.”

“Maybe.”

“Asahi.”

“Hm?”

“Look out for Tobio and Kei.” Asahi blinks. “I doubt anything would happen, but you know.”

A laugh. “Yeah. Tadashi is on the watch. They aren’t teenagers anymore; they’re capable.” They shuffle out to the corridor of the apartment. As they wait for the elevator, Sugawara mumbles,

“If I killed that man seven years ago, would I be fighting as a crow?”

Asahi swivels to Koushi, his hand stuffed into his pocket. “Do you want to be?” _Do I?_ Sweat gathers in the wrinkles of his palm. “The family can’t dispatch a member unmotivated to fight to the field, Suga.” _Unmotivated to fight or unmotivated to kill?_ “Don’t try to be someone you aren’t.”

But who is Sugawara Koushi?

“Yeah,” he replies instead. “Don’t die.”

“I have Nishinoya.”

_(“I’ll be around as your partner so that you won’t ever have to shoot a person.”)_

Koushi smiles. His throat constricts.

“Sure.”

During the final week of March, at central Tokyo, there is a cherry blossom festival hosted by the district which goes on for three days, until the first of April.

Albeit spending the majority of his life in the capital, he’s never been able to attend one for a number of reasons: the yakuza were most active and occupied at night, he was swamped with paperwork in the afternoon (mostly cleaning up after Nishinoya and Tanaka’s mess), and when he was a kid, he didn’t have a guardian to accompany him due to his mother’s hectic schedule.

This year, though – he doesn’t have a reason _not_ to go.

“And that’s why you invited me?”

“I mean,” he dunks his petite fishnet into the tub with swimming goldfish. _Ah, I was so close._ “I’ll seem like a creeper if I loiter around alone- _gotcha_!” The goldfish flaps wildly out of his net and dives into the tub again. Sugawara groans as the stall owner informs him that his time is up.

Sawamura shakes his head, “Give that to me,” offering a fistful of coins to the owner, the cop crouches beside him with the net. “This requires a special technique – something you Tokyo kids wouldn’t be able to learn, with all the insipid childhoods you generally have.”

“Hey, that’s rude, Tokyo kids have fun childhoods too!”

“No childhood should be defined as ‘fun’ if you can’t even catch a goldfish properly. Watch,” Sawamura licks the corner of his mouth. _I mean, is this really something to get so fervent over?_ But he watches anyway because it’s humoring to do so. At the center of the festival milling with toddlers in kimonos and their parents, there was one policeman with a fishnet the size of his pinky, determined to catch a bag of goldfish that they’d most likely release back into the tub. Sugawara chuckles at the picture.

“Oh, you’re good.”

“Give me thirty seconds and I’ll catch five more.”

He laughs at that. _Competitive._

Sawamura’s score is nine goldfish. They waste another two hundred yen over a shaved ice cream bet. It’s a given that Sugawara loses, but they do it. Sawamura wins with no plot twist whatsoever, and Sugawara buys them flavored shaved ice cups. “Cherry or blue Hawaii?”

“Ah, I’ll have red bean.”

“Red bean, what are you, my grandma?”

Sawamura shrugs. “I like red bean.”

He faces the cashier, “We’ll have two red beans.”

“What happened to being a grandma?”

“I don’t recall saying that my palate was overflowing with youth.”

“That was a really weird sentence.”

“I don’t know, ‘I like red bean too’ sounded boring. And you said Tokyo kids are boring.”

“No, you’re an exception.” Sugawara freezes and blinks at that. “You have a few screws loose.” He doesn’t hesitate to fling his plastic spoon at the cop. The spoon ricochets off the man’s brawny arm and lands on the soil. “You shouldn’t litter.”

“I was about to retrieve it, thanks.” He picks up the spoon and discards it in the bin piled with half-emptied packages of snacks from nearby stalls. A pair of children giggle as they zoom past him, hands held together. It’s strange to think that he too, had been that young before. There were no photographs of him from then, no records to prove that a child Sugawara Koushi existed. It feels like a dream, like a distant hallucination. “I didn’t pull you out of work, did I? I hope I didn’t.”

Sawamura melts a chunk of ice between his teeth. “No, you didn’t. I wasn’t anticipating you to contact me, is all. I thought it was an emergency, not an invitation to the sakura festival. Oh, there’s a vacant bench.” They stride towards the bench and prop themselves on it. They’ve been crouching and ambling around for a while. “Or is this actually an emergency? I can’t tell with you.”

 _Do you even observe me enough to be able to tell anything?_ “No. As aforementioned, I didn’t want to be mistaken for, you know, with how many mothers and high school girls there are.”

“Hm,” there’s a half-meter distance between them on a bench for four. “The last time I’ve been to a festival is my senior year of high school.”

“Really,” he traces the characters of his name on the sandy ground with his foot. “I haven’t been to one.”

Sawamura frowns at him quizzically. “Ever?”

“Ever.”

“And you’re Japanese?”

He snorts. “It wasn’t something available to me, with my affiliation and, well. You get the gist.” _He probably doesn’t,_ Sugawara realizes – Sawamura isn’t from their world. But then again, it feels tedious to clarify. This is a temporary partnership, not a familial bond akin to that of the yakuza.

Much to his relief, the other does not question him. “I see. What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“The festival.”

“Crowded. And, hm… bright.” There are rainbow-themed lanterns dangling on strings and wires above, both between stalls and the marquees of each. Cherry blossom petals dot the paved paths, and the delectable aroma of grilled and stir-fried food inundate the streets. There are stalls with shooting games, cosplay masks, candied apples, and glow-in-the-dark stickers. _I might’ve enjoyed it if I were six or seven._ As an adult, he’s more bothered by the glean of sweat on his forehead and the sugary stickiness on his fingers from the shaved ice and its plastic spoon.

“That’s the blandest commentary I’ve heard.”

Another huff. “I’m past the age for this, you see.”

“Then why’d you come?”

 _Why,_ he angles his head towards the sky. It’s nine. No stars, no moon, smoke from the food stalls. A branch of a cherry blossom tree. “I like fireworks.” He answers, “I wanted to see the fireworks.”

( _“Aren’t the fireworks pretty, Koushi? Like flowers!”)_

Sawamura glances at his wristwatch. “We still have forty minutes, but we should go reserve a spot. The popular ones fill up quickly.”

“I didn’t think you’d follow through the idea.”

“I like fireworks, too.”

“Do you?”

“Most people do.”

 _I guess._ It’s an inexplicable emotion. He’s sprawled on the bench here, as his comrades, his subordinates are fighting alongside one another, shooting, killing, ravaging. Sugawara would’ve been there, had the man beside him weren’t there to rescue his life that night, New Year’s Eve. Or, no – he wouldn’t have been either way, as he would’ve ceased to breathe, his body cold on the concrete passage. _I wouldn’t be with them in whichever ending, then._ It doesn’t feel right for him to be on this side of society. The peaceful, serene side. The side with fireworks instead of sparks of gunpowder, the side with children whining for a caramelized strawberry rather than starving children resolved to steal from the next pedestrian, the side with policemen in the place of convicts. And here he is.

_Man, I want to smoke._

“Are you done daydreaming?”

Sawamura’s profile is hazy in his field of vision. Sugawara waits for his outline to become firmer, clearer. _He trimmed his hair._ He remembers how Sawamura regarded him when he proposed this arrangement in the alley. It wasn’t repugnance or detestation – detached patronizing, as one would view an insect.

(“ _He laughs a lot – I think it’s cute._ ”)

“You’re looking at me like I’m a person,” mumbles Koushi. “Why?”

Daichi gazes at him, stoic. “Must be just you.”

 _No, you’re acting different. You’ve been acting different._ Since when? Was it when they ate mapo tofu together? Was it when they enacted that disastrous fake-dating gimmick? Was it a whole lot before that? _No, it’s not a question of when, it’s a matter of why._ “If you insist.”

They stroll to the hillslopes, where a sizable audience has gathered for the fireworks ceremony. “I don’t think we’d able to squeeze in,” the cop exclaims, his voice drowned out by the obstreperous chatter of the visitors surrounding them in all directions. After one last attempt to excavate a spot, they scuttle out of the packed grassland, sweating buckets. “We got there too late.”

“Can’t help it. Won’t be able to watch them, then.”

Sawamura twists his lips, “No, there’s around twenty minutes remaining. We can probably make it.”

“Make it where?”

“There’s another place where you can see the fireworks, though it won’t be as close up as the hills. Is that alright?”

Bewildered, Sugawara tilts his head, “Uh, yeah.”

“Want to get a beer on the way?”

“God, _please_.”

Sawamura directs them out of the festival grounds. They briefly enter a local convenience store and purchase two cans of beer and drink as they walk. It’s a public park by the western premises, by Inarizaki territory. “I’ll probably be shot if an Inarizaki lackey recognizes me,” Sugawara remarks, to which the other replies,

“I’ll arrest them, then.”

Sugawara can’t suppress his laughter upon hearing that rejoinder. A cop arresting a yakuza for shooting a fellow yakuza – it’s not the norm. “I’ll leave it to you, then.”

They hike up a hill for approximately five minutes in silence. The breeze which glides between the trees and their bushy leaves whistles, echoing through the area. The squeaks of crickets and gurgles of frogs join the almost inaudible chant of nature. It’s nothing like the festival. _I wonder how he discovered this location._ He’s a detective, so perhaps he was patrolling the region.

When they reach the summit, Sugawara takes note of an odd bulge amongst the evergreen blades. There’s a can of tuna lying next to it and a flat, short gravestone buried carefully in front of the mound. The hiragana letters of ‘Rin’ are carved into the surface. “There’s a tomb here,” Sugawara says aloud, “it’s for a cat, I presume.”

Sawamura also observes the mini-grave as he sits cross-legged. “Must’ve been some kids. That wasn’t the brand of canned tuna I saw before when I came here.”

“It’s endearing.”

“Kids usually are.”

“Some are devils.” It’s a half-joke. A loaded joke. Not devils but conditioned to become devils. That past was what constituted the Oikawa Tooru of the east, as well as Kuroo Tetsurou. “How did you know there was a hill like this in the park?”

“My friend working undercover at Kamomedai likes to explore with his partner. He told me about it.”

“Ah.” He sips his beer. The fizz dissipates on his tongue. “You know, I was pretty certain you wouldn’t tag along, once you realized it wasn’t an emergency meeting.”

“I thought it’d be pleasant to shift gears sometimes.”

“You don’t like the yakuza, though.”

“I don’t like crime,” Sawamura corrects pointedly.

_(“Also, a question,” it’s his turn. “Is your animosity towards us rooted in your morals and code of justice, or is it a personal grudge?”_

_“Do I have to answer that?”_

_“Well, I don’t have guns or blades to threaten you, so no.”_

_The policeman doesn’t halt, doesn’t face Koushi, and moves forward. “It’s the latter.”_

_A personal grudge.)_

“You said it was a personal grudge.”

Daichi smiles wryly. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

He taps his temple with his index finger. “I have terrific memory.”

“I know.” Koushi scans Daichi’s expression – tight-lipped, jaded.

Inhale. “Hey,” the man glimpses at him from the side, “I joined the yakuza because I had to pay off a debt.” _I probably shouldn’t be babbling about this._ What can he do? He’s a talkative drunk, and the beer is tasty. “It was just my mother and I. She wasn’t accustomed to having a career, looking after herself, more or less with the burden of raising a kid.” The beer burned the back of his throat – _huh. Beer doesn’t burn, that’s weird._ “She borrowed a loan from the yakuza when I was fifteen. Ten million. Kumicho Ikkei- ah, the former Karasuno Kumicho – offered a trade. I accepted.”

It’s quite dispiriting that his twenty-five years can be described within a couple meager sentences. Doesn’t that mean there was nothing substantial in those twenty-five years, nothing of value? The beer stings his stomach.

(“ _I don’ deserve this, Koushi, I…”)_

 _Mom._ The can dents with a ‘clank’ as he presses the exterior with his thumb. The city sparkles, radiant. _Mom._

( _If I chose to jump then,_

_If I didn’t argue with her,_

_If I kept listening,_

_If I just,_

_If I,_

_If,)_

A high-pitched noise resounds – a fiery, blazing star blasts towards the sky.

Brilliant fireworks, blooming marigold, cerulean, and emerald.

(“ _Aren’t the fireworks pretty, Koushi?”)_

_(“Be a crow.”)_

_(“Don’t try to be someone you aren’t.”)_

“My parents were murdered when I was eight years old.”

He sucks in a wet gulp of air as he snaps to Daichi. The latter glows in the color of fireworks as he speaks. “They were one of the twenty-three researchers at Kambe Pharmaceutical’s drug development team.”

(“ _… twenty-three researchers were shot. In the process of formulating a new antibiotic drug, they created a substance later labeled ‘adollium’…”)_

“No evidence was found because the culprits lit the floor on fire after the murder – or at least, the police couldn’t find any. The only report they made was that their methods resembled those of the yakuza.” Sawamura tips in the remnants of his beer into his mouth. “It’s not that I specifically abhor the yakuza, but it was the only clue I had. I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t approve crime in general.”

Sugawara lets that sink in. His parents were murdered. Finally, the missing piece of Sawamura Daichi’s puzzle fits. He’s a rational man, an individual who can consider the backgrounds of those in both worlds, and yet, there was this underlying, blanketed animosity in his gravelly voice when he spoke of the yakuza. _If his parents were involved in that kind of incident, it’s no wonder._ The Kambe Pharmaceutical Mass-Murder case was categorized as an unsolved mystery for eighteen years; the adollium from eighteen years ago has now surfaced.

(“ _You don’t seem like the type of dog to engage in such deals with our kind.”_

 _“I have my reasons_.”)

This was Sawamura Daichi’s final chance as much as it was Sugawara Koushi’s.

A chance for answers, a chance for regains.

Their last.

“Then you’re working on this case because…”

Sawamura nods. “Our chief investigator is Kambe Daisuke. He’s recruited me because I was one of the indirect victims, and the only child of the victims who decided to become a cop.” He stalls as he puts his empty can beside his lap. “I can’t afford to relent after all these years.”

(“ _He’s nice.”)_

 _No._ Sugawara denies mentally – Sawamura was not ‘nice.’ Nice does not encompass his character. He’s the kind of man who chose to pull the trigger to protect the world that Sugawara didn’t belong in. He’s the kind of man who, despite his past, clung to prudence, a thin rope of sanity, to understand others. He’s the kind of man who didn’t pity but tried to understand, _actually_ understand. He’s the kind of man who didn’t forget his ‘thank you’s and ‘take care’s where they were due. _No._

He’s not that _kind_ of man. He is that man.

Specs of fireworks are reflected in Daichi’s glassy orbs. They gleam like stardust.

_If he weren’t a cop, and if I weren’t a yakuza, then…_

His sense of reality warps as in a daze, he leans in. His beer rolls down the slope, accelerating in motion. He leans in further. Further.

( _Look away.)_

Further.

_(Look away.)_

Half a meter to half an inch.

( _Look away.)_

Half an inch to a centi-

An enormous, blinding firework bursts, setting the dim twilight ablaze.

Daichi’s lips have not moved. He can feel his warm breath. The grass itches his palm. Koushi peers up at Daichi, who is staring at him. He doesn’t appear startled or shocked in the slightest. “… Why didn’t you look away?”

The man doesn’t even blink as he mumbles quietly, “Why did you stop?”

Koushi swallows.

They’re close. Their shoulders are touching.

“I don’t know, I,” he short-circuits. Does he not know? No, he does indeed know. But he can’t continue. He can’t proceed. If he does, if he did, then, “we can’t be anything.”

_Anything?_

He phrased that as if he wanted them to be something.

Something, what?

_Don’t conceptualize it. Don’t do it._

Daichi’s eyes no longer reflect the fireworks, but Koushi. “Because of whom we are?”

(“ _I like holding his hand.”)_

Koushi bites his tongue. _Why’d you say that if we never held hands before?_ “Because,” _does this even necessitate an explanation? It’s a hunting dog and a crow. It’s between the righteous and unlawful. We might be able to step into each other’s spheres, but we won’t ever belong. We won’t ever. I won’t ever,_ “Because of _why_ we are.”

Daichi brushes his fringe out of his sight. His touch strokes the edge of his lashes. Koushi goes static. “You’re more than a crow.”

_I wish you never noticed._

“I’m better off as a crow than a person.”

As a crow, he didn’t have to ruminate on his purpose and identity as a human being. As a member of the flock, his role was transparent and critical. Sugawara Koushi the human is just a heathen. A heathen who wants to be loved. The carcass of what used to be a middle schooler who dreamt of being a teacher, who dreamt of building a home for himself, who dreamt of a future where his mother was there with him, no matter who she was.

It’s not an understatement to proclaim that he died eleven years ago.

“People will always be people, as trees will be trees and cats will be cats. We can only live as people because we were born as people.”

And yet, “Why are you telling me this?”

Daichi’s jaw clenches.

( _If we weren’t who we were, if we weren’t why we were, then would we be somewhere else, as different human beings? Would you have still watched the fireworks?)_

“I don’t know.”

They both know.

They both painfully know.

_(No. If it weren’t in this shape, in this form, we would’ve never met._

_That’s why it hurts.)_


	9. Traitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, another extremely important chapter, not perhaps in terms of plot, but other aspects of the story. I'm beginning to realize how challenging it is to write a story with a gazillion characters - And Foxes will Lie was a lot more doable. Poor me :') 
> 
> That being said - I just want to bring something back I said in chapter 1 of this fic. This fic contains major spoilers for And Foxes will Lie, if you're a reader who has only read this fic of the series. There will also be some scenes that will naturally make more sense to you (specifically regarding character relations and motivations) if you read part 1. I will, of course, try to write so that you can infer from most scenes, but I wanted readers to keep that in mind (if you haven't read AFwL). 
> 
> I hope that was enough of a warning for those who indeed READ AFwL - get ready, you're about to have many AFwL references. 
> 
> That's all from me - thank you for the comments, kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks as always! I love engaging with all of you reading this fic, so really, thank you. You're the heroes of this journey :)

“In short, there has not been significant progress in the investigation.”

“That is correct, sir.”

Superintendent Takei Katsuhiro entwines his fingers together and sets his hands on his desk with an austere frown. “Cursed Kambe,” he mutters with venom, a vein protruding from his inner wrist, “digging up what’s far past. As if we haven’t struggled to apprehend the culprit of that incident eighteen years ago.”

“Inspector Kambe’s father was also murdered that night. His wife was diagnosed with major depressive disorder afterward and took her own life two years later. It is understandable that he wishes to solve this case – not to mention that the limitation period for prosecution is now disregarded for homicide cases.”

Takei huffs. “He won’t be able to proceed much. There is no remaining evidence.” He flits towards his subordinate. “Is there anything else to report, Futakuchi?”

Futakuchi chews on his tongue. “… About Captain Terushima, sir…”

“Hm? What about him?”

 _No. Even if I ask…_ “It’s nothing, sir.”

The Superintendent smiles. “You’re doing a stellar job, Detective Futakuchi. Keep it up.” He bows in response to his superior. “You’re a smart one. To climb the ladder in this place, you must follow the top dog.”

 _Smart, huh._ “I won’t disappoint you, Superintendent.”

“I hope so. You’re dismissed.”

He salutes and slips out of the private study.

“You’d be an adorable puppy.”

Futakuchi snaps to his right – Terushima Yuuji is flashing a crooked grin at him. “Is that an insult?”

Terushima gestures at Futakuchi to follow him. “No, no. Everyone’s fond of puppies, why would it be an insult?” Pause. “Unless you interpreted it differently? Why would that be, eh, Detective Futakuchi?”

“Nonsense. I simply don’t like puppies.”

“Blasphemy, how is that possible?”

“I’m a kitten-person.” Futakuchi presses the ‘down’ button for the elevator. “Did you need me, Terushima-san?”

“Yes; we have to head out together.”

“You and I?”

“Is that a problem?”

Futakuchi twists his lips. “No, of course not.”

“You wouldn’t have been the best actor. No Oscars for you,” simpers Terushima, waltzing into the lift as the doors slide open. “Don’t look at me like I dunked vinegar into your cereal. It won’t take long – just a brief scout to Itachiyama’s former headquarters and a security camera scavenger hunt.”

“Itachiyama? That building is currently Inarizaki property – we wouldn’t be permitted to investigate without a warrant –“

“Or if we’re lucky, we wouldn’t have to. The building is Inarizaki’s, but it’s been uninhabited since the family’s been demolished.”

“… That’s reckless.”

“Get used to it, officer. It’s my style.” Terushima tosses his car keys to Futakuchi. “You can drive, yeah?”

“Isn’t it your car?”

“I like it when others drive for me. C’mon, I’ll buy some drinks for us at the vending machine. Meet me at the gates.” _What the hell,_ Futakuchi thinks, but Terushima is already jogging down the hallway. With a sigh, he walks to the parking lot and warms the engine for Terushima’s car – a sleek black Mercedes. The car is littered with empty Starbucks carriers and cups, as well as crinkled brown coffeeshop tissues. _Yuck._

At the gate, there is Terushima holding two cans of coffee. As soon as the blonde hops in, Futakuchi gripes, “Could you at least put in the effort to tidy up your own car?”

Terushima snorts. “You’re missing the point. I don’t clean _precisely_ because it’s my car.”

“You’re tragic.”

“Hey, I’m alright.”

Futakuchi doesn’t bother. “Why are we scouting Itachiyama?”

“Who knows. Direct orders from Inspector Kambe. Oh, the security cameras are for Sawamura-san, though. I’ll explain that to you once we get to it.” Terushima sniffs once before taking out his phone. “Itachiyama… Iizuna Akihiko was the Kumicho, yeah?”

“Yes – his nephew, Iizuna Tsukasa, also the wakagashira of the family, obliterated the organization while trying to usurp the throne.”

Terushima snaps his fingers, “That’s it. That’s what I don’t get.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s the wakagashira, the rightful heir, the sole kin of the Kumicho. Another five years or so, and his uncle’s prosperity and affluence would’ve been his. There is no reason to go out of his way to seize authority, more so at the risk of half the family. He was only twenty-six, too; he would’ve been executed had his plan backfired. And what about Inarizaki? How was he going to explain why he murdered his own Kumicho to the head family? He might’ve invented some crafty tale, but Kumicho Kurosu isn’t an idiot. He’s the king of those foxes, after all. That means Iizuna Tsukasa wreaked havoc because it _had to be_ then, no matter what.” Futakuchi blinks at the man; Terushima snorts. “What, you thought I acted on intuition alone?”

“… Frankly, yes.”

“Becoming a team captain ain’t that chill, Futakuchi-kun, especially at our age.”

“I’m aware. Good for you.” _It’d be perfect if he worked on his humility,_ “But Iizuna Tsukasa has been reported to have committed suicide that night of the revolt.”

“Well, we at least know that his objective wasn’t to attain the throne of Itachiyama.”

“Itachiyama was most likely linked to Kuromaku. Do you think Iizuna Tsukasa was notified of this?”

“Whether he was or wasn’t doesn’t answer vital questions. It’s just that, if he instigated a brawl while knowing Itachiyama’s side business…”

“You’re implying that there was more than an internal divide.”

“Perhaps.” Terushima unbuckles his seatbelt. “Let’s move.”

They park the vehicle a block away from Itachiyama’s abandoned headquarters. As Terushima said, the building is unoccupied, despite being under Inarizaki’s authorization. Terushima is kneeling by a broken clay pot on the floor, clumps of soil muddling the flooring. “There was a skirmish here. Seems like most of the bodies and bloodstains were cleansed, but they weren’t able to dispose everything.”

“Isn’t this building Inarizaki’s? Why wouldn’t they be able to?”

“Tsk, tsk, get your brain cranking, Futakuchi. Or maybe you aren’t creative – that must be it.” Terushima rises, “It’s been over three months since Itachiyama has fallen, and yet there aren’t signs that Inarizaki has visited this edifice ever since. Why do you think that would be?”

 _Avoiding a former branch family. For what?_ “… They don’t want to?”

“Remember what Detective Hoshiumi has relayed. ‘Inarizaki isn’t with Kuromaku,’ but their branch family, Itachiyama, probably is. If Inarizaki is caught traversing Itachiyama’s headquarters, who do you think will be on top of the list of suspects when the police announce a city-wide search for Kuromaku?”

 _Ah._ Futakuchi nods, “Inarizaki.”

“Right. Nobody will care to believe whether it’s true or not; we cops distrust the yakuza. And as they realize that point, they’re steering away from Itachiyama to prevent the creation of further disadvantageous evidence.”

“But then why accept Sakusa Kiyoomi under their wing?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we should figure out.”

 _Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu. Was it Miya Atsumu who brought Sakusa in? What merits are there for Inarizaki taking in Sakusa?_ They trudge around each floor. There were signs of battle, as well as a few wrecked sprinklers on the ceiling. “That’s from a gunshot, isn’t it?” Futakuchi remarks, and Terushima squints at the tarnished edge of the sprinkler. There are clumsily wiped pale crimson splotches beneath it. _Water and blood…_ “Electrocution, you think?”

“Plausible. It’s not a common method for the yakuza, but if they had a shrewd and cunning one – Oikawa Tooru, Miya Osamu, and hm, the cats.” Terushima crouches and rubs his finger on the smudge of blood. “It’s evident someone’s at least attempted to erase these stains. Seems like they didn’t have much time, though, same goes for the shattered pot at the lobby.”

“Inarizaki? Or…”

“No, not the foxes. If the foxes truly did not know Itachiyama’s – well, let’s say potential – potential connection to Kuromaku until that night or some days after, they would’ve cleaned up this mess. They’re the head family, after all; they have the duty to check on their branches. But they didn’t.”

“And whoever did, did it in a hurry – as if they had a time constraint.” Futakuchi calculates a couple possibilities and yields the most probable answer. “They weren’t meant to be here. And those who aren’t meant to be at Itachiyama would be…” his pupils dilate, and Terushima smirks. “The east.”

“Touché.”

“But why – the east and west don’t meddle in each other’s businesses, that’s –“

“Back to my question from earlier,” Terushima interjects, raising a finger, “what was Iizuna Tsukasa’s _true_ objective, if not the throne?”

 _He’s fucking dead, as if I would know._ “No clue.”

“Me too.”

Futakuchi scowls.

“I wouldn’t be a cop if I were omniscient, Futakuchi-kun. I have some theories, but I’ll reserve them for later. I think we’re done here.”

He writes three bullet points in his phone’s notepad:

  1. Iizuna Tsukasa’s goal?
  2. Infiltration of the east?
  3. Jirou



_Jirou._ Futakuchi breathes in.

(“ _Don’t forget me, Kenji.”)_

Once they’re in their seats, Terushima says, “Sawamura-san asked us to look through security camera footages in the entire west region – a concentration on bars and brothels, if possible. Can you do that? You’re the techie of the team.”

“Ah, yes. My laptop is at the station, though.”

“Sure, then. Let’s drive back.”

The ride is relatively quiet – the radio is on, and the DJ is talking about the beauty of spring. Until, “Hey, Futakuchi-kun.”

“Yes?”

“When’s the Superintendent’s birthday?”

 _What?_ “October twentieth.”

“Hm, what about Sergeant Takeuchi? Does he have kids?”

“Two daughters.”

“And Inspector Yoshimura, where does he live?”

 _What even,_ “That would be an invasion of personal privacy.”

“But you do know, huh?”

He does. Futakuchi rolls his tongue inside his mouth. Terushima continues. “Does Superintendent Takei have kids, then?”

“He had a son – Terushima-san, what’s the purpose of –“

“Had, not has?”

Futakuchi holds his breath. The light is red. _Shit._ He can feel Terushima’s triumphant sneer. “Most only know that he _has_ a son, Futakuchi-kun. Why’d you say had?”

 _Shit. Shit._ “… It was a mistake. I meant –“

“I always deemed it as strange. Ah, it’s green.” Futakuchi pedals the gas, gulping as Terushima spoke. “Like the statistics for Itachiyama, how you caught on before Sawamura-san, when you don’t seem to be deeply knowledgeable about the yakuza. And I affirmed that just now, at Itachiyama’s headquarters. It’s not that you lack deductively, it’s just that you aren’t focused on the yakuza. So, y’know, I thought, then what _is_ he focused on?”

“Terushima –“

“Your target is the MPDI.”

Futakuchi bristles.

“Am I wrong?” He doesn’t reply.

“Nothing, hm? Then here’s another question for you, detective.” Terushima Yuuji – Division 3 team captain at the age of twenty-six. Renowned for his almost terrifyingly sharp intuition and instinct. Futakuchi feels it to his core. “Have you betrayed the MPDI,” his grip around the steering wheel wrinkles the leopard-patterned cover, “or has the MPDI betrayed justice?”

_Terushima Yuuji – someone to be feared._

“What difference does it make?”

“Everything.” Terushima opens the window. The sweet whiff of spring gushes in. “And depending on your response, I’m willing to cooperate.” Futakuchi frowns, and flickers to the man.

Terushima’s piercings glint under the sun.

“Why don’t we both become traitors, Futakuchi?”

###

_(“People will always be people, as trees will be trees and cats will be cats. We can only live as people because we were born as people.”_

_“Why are you telling me this?”_

_“I don’t know.”)_

Koushi lowers himself further into the tub of hot water. The festival was four days ago; they haven’t regrouped for a meeting since. They’re avoiding each other. _Why did I,_ he has flashbacks to how he leaned in for a kiss, dazed. How Daichi didn’t retract. He at least, had been attracted to the man prior to the disclosure of his identity. _But what about him? Why the sudden change in heart?_

It was simpler when he was hated.

He flits to the clock – 11:32 P.M. _The war._ Fukurodani had ambushed Shiratorizawa’s branch family, the hawks, after Inarizaki’s attack on the white tigers. Sugawara counts the dissolved branch families – three. _The white tigers, the hawks, the bears… ah, and the weasels, if you include Itachiyama. Not that they’re involved._ That was approximately fifteen hundred casualties. If the war were to be prolonged, then it was a duel of tenacity. _We can’t repeat the devastation of the first yakuza war. Had I been there to negotiate between the east and west…_

_Bang!_

“Fuh-“ He chokes on bathwater. Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around his waist and leaps to his drawer to retrieve his weapons. _An enemy? No, but there’s no reason to target me._ The banging on the door intensifies.

“ _Oi, Sugawara!”_

 _That voice,_ he scrambles to the door and peeks through the peephole. “Fuck,” with a cuss, he undoes the chain on his lock. “Kuroo?”

“Yo,” Kuroo Tetsurou greets him, panting. His cheekbones are filthy with grime and thin cuts, a sleeve of his button-down torn and his side –

“Kuroo, what the _hell_ ,” Blood oozes out between Kuroo’s fingers, where he’s clutching onto the left of his stomach. Sugawara ushers him inside, ensuring that there aren’t neighbors snooping around. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Nekoma’s clinic- hey, Kuroo!” He snatches the hem of Kuroo’s shirt as he threatens to crumple over his carpet. _He’s lost too much blood. How many rolls of bandages do I have? I didn’t stock up after Tobio came last year when he was stabbed, darn it._

“It’s not,” a mangled cough, “as bad as it looks.”

“Don’t talk, you’ll worsen it.” He sprints to get his first aid kit and returns in seconds with a pair of trousers replacing his towel. “What happened?”

“Got unlucky- _fuck,_ be gentle.”

“Can’t, you should’ve gone to a doctor. Did your stitches…”

“Yeah. A bullet grazed them. Wouldn’t have been fatal otherwise,” Kuroo groans as Sugawara presses the wound. “There were some leftover lackeys from the hawks. Bokuto’s shoddy when it’s about extermination, y’know. He only likes to crush his enemies, not delivering the final blow.”

He rips the bandages, “So you did?”

“Obviously.”

“I heard you were shot.”

“I was.”

“By whom?”

“Who knows.” Kuroo grimaces, “It was dark.”

“Kenma was worried about you.”

“Was he?” Kuroo goes slack as he angles his neck backward. “I wanted to see that.”

“No, you don’t. Kenma’s flat is located two blocks from mine.”

A fatigued chuckle, “You’re right. I don’t.” Kuroo sucks in a lungful of air – it whistles as it seeps through his gritted teeth. “I think he resents me.”

Koushi hardens. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“He wouldn’t utter a syllable to me, even when I was out of that damned clinic. Disappeared, like, poof. I watched him once from afar, during his shift at the Garage.” He heeds Kuroo’s whispers as he dresses the swollen injury. “Man, he might actually hate me this time.”

“Maybe you deserve that much, pushing him away for years.”

“I can’t be with him.” Kuroo grunts, “The day I swore my allegiance to Kumicho Nekomata, I simultaneously renounced the right to stand by Kenma. Just like how you chose to live for Kumicho Ikkei in this world.”

“Mine wasn't a matter of choice; you love Kenma.”

( _“What have you lost?”_

_“Something more valuable than freedom.”)_

Kuroo Tetsurou had not obtained freedom. He wasn’t free at all. He had lost freedom, had lost something more valuable than freedom. _Then what do you have, Kuroo?_ “I wouldn’t have been able to protect him, had I chosen to love him, Sugawara.”

Kuroo Tetsurou, the undefeated. Kuroo Tetsurou, the monster. The slaughterer. The reaper.

Koushi longs to laugh.

Titles were titles, rumors were rumors.

He feels stupid for shivering in trepidation then, as he conversed with the younger Kuroo Tetsurou atop that mountain of corpses.

(Kuroo had been shaking, too, just barely.)

“Sometimes,” mumbles the feline, “sometimes, I wish he met me later. When I repudiated my humanity for something else, something asinine, something inane. Then he wouldn’t spew gibberish about desiring me. We’d be at least three universes apart, not within arm’s reach, as we are now.”

“Would you prefer that reality to this one?” The treatment of the wound is finished. Sugawara fixates his attention on Kuroo.

“… No.” Kuroo wears a distant gaze – gazing at the sky, Koushi guesses, at something intangible. “I can’t lose what we currently possess, too. I’d have nothing.”

“Why the _fuck_ are you so,” an abrupt wave of exasperation sweeps through Koushi, but he suppresses it with a coaxing exhale. “You’re a coward, Kuroo.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” Kuroo shrugs as he buttons his shirt again. “What’s that, that proverb… no, not a proverb, but… ah, ‘you have nothing to fear when you don’t have anything to lose.’”

Koushi washes the man’s blood from his hands in the sink of his bathroom. “What about it?”

“It’s logical. Fear is rooted in possession. You’re afraid of death because you know what it’s like to live. Irrefutable logic.”

“Mm.”

“But it’s not actually a matter of quantity, but quality. It’s not that you fear more when you have more to lose, it’s all about _what_ you lose.” For a moment, his mother’s blinding smile clouds his thoughts. Koushi blinks at the mirror. “I don’t have much else other than myself and my ties to Kenma. Putting myself aside, if that linkage is severed, then I,” Kuroo wavers, as if his vocal cords are clogged. He’s never witnessed Kuroo this vulnerable. It must be the consequent haze of his tremendous blood loss. “It’s not that there’s nothing to fear when you’re robbed of everything you own. It’s that there’s no point in waiting for tomorrow, so you become listless. Lost.”

Koushi turns to Kuroo. The war was insignificant to the black cat. Every single entity in the galaxy was probably of no worth to him. All except – “To you, Kenma is tomorrow.”

The electric fan rattles above them.

“Yeah. A tomorrow to live for,” and also, “a tomorrow I’ll never be able to hold.”

Sawamura Daichi.

What is Daichi to Koushi?

 _(“My parents were murdered when I was six years old.”_ )

The yakuza. Kambe Pharmaceuticals. The mass murder case of eighteen years ago. Adollium. The kidnappings of addicted women. The war – and tomorrow.

“Hey, Sugawara.”

Kuroo is bent over the counter, Koushi’s phone in his hand. “It’s been vibrating.” He tosses it towards him. “Mind if I sleep on the couch?”

“Ah, no. Make yourself comfortable.” With a yawn, Kuroo collapses face-first into the cushions and begins snoring.

[ **Incoming call: Sawamura Daichi]**

He slowly shuts the bathroom door. “Hello?”

“ _I confirmed it.”_

“Sorry?”

“ _My colleagues – they spotted both Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime on one of the west’s security camera footage.”_ Koushi’s form goes rigid. “ _Oikawa was seen interacting with a prostitute at a bar named Baracho. Iwaizumi Hajime walked out with a boy a few weeks after. We were able to identify the prostitute as Umihara Kanako; she quit her job last September. According to the hostess of the bar, she’s dead. It seems like she was an adollium addict.”_

Oikawa talking to a woman? _If he’s actually with Kuromaku… no, then why take in the kid?_

_(“Bokuto aside, I wouldn’t trust Oikawa much. Who knows what he has in store for us.”_

_“… Are you referring to former Kumicho Irihata’s death?”_

_“Naturally. That geezer was fit and was on his meds. For him to pass with a heart attack – it’s not improbable, but, well.”_ )

_Did Oikawa murder Kumicho Irihata because he wanted to become Kumicho?_

_Or…_

“ _Sugawara.”_ Daichi begins, and doubt consumes Koushi’s senses. _It can’t be. Oikawa is ambitious. He’s an anomaly, but he’s not, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t._ He knows Oikawa. _He’s not. He wouldn’t._ He thought he knew Oikawa.

“ _Did Oikawa betray the east?”_

###

“Must you always select the more strenuous route?”

Hanamaki Takahiro, the lawyer of Seijoh, tears a profiterole in half and pops a piece into his mouth. He shoves the other piece into Matsukawa Issei’s nose, who splutters in protest. “I almost _died,_ have some mercy, Hiro.”

“It’s not like you broke your nose; don’t be a bitch about it.”

“You’d be a bitch about it if you had four gaping holes in your body, too.”

“If someone is bound to traipse through a meadow of flowers,” Oikawa interrupts with a lax drawl, “then someone else has to venture through a labyrinth of thorns. That’s life.”

“I wish you’d have more sympathy for those who have to _accompany_ you through that hell.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Makki – you love me.” Oikawa glances out the transparent wall of his study. The streets are lit with traffic and billboards. Then the Kumicho murmurs, “Don’t leave me.”

Matsukawa snorts – Hanamaki pushes in another profiterole towards Matsukawa’s uvula upon the opportunity. “ _Hiro- mmph.”_ Hanamaki whips to Oikawa with a stern frown.

“Don’t be stupid. We’re not leaving. How much do you think our salary is?”

Oikawa pouts, “I was anticipating something more inspirational, like, our ‘bond,’ ‘faith’ –”

“Scrap that, money is paramount to everything.”

“Are all lawyers like you? I’m concerned for the legal future of this country.”

“The country will manage without one lawyer,” shrugs Hanamaki, “I’m here because you need me.”

Oikawa is wordless – which signifies concurrence. He submits his weight to the chair as he gazes down at the scenery.

“Worried about Iwaizumi?” Matsukawa asks, and Oikawa’s lips quirk. “He’s our ace, and he’s short-tempered but not rash. He’ll be fine. Besides, he’s not the type to die.”

“I know – and he won’t die. Not on my watch.” Iwaizumi Hajime – Oikawa’s most dependable aide and right-hand man, his childhood friend of over twenty years, and also Oikawa’s, “He’s an unparalleled resource. Seijoh wouldn’t be Seijoh without him.”

“Well, I mean,” Matsukawa slings an arm around Hanamaki’s shoulder, “Seijoh is technically Iwaizumi’s.”

“Yeah, dude. Just that Iwaizumi didn’t want it, so he gave it to you.” Hanamaki sighs dramatically, “The power of love, Mattsun. How do you abnegate all claims to a massive inheritance for such a fickle, capricious emotion?”

“I feel substantially attacked as your lover, please stop.”

“You guys are gross.” Oikawa sticks out his tongue in disdain. “I would’ve taken Seijoh whether Iwa-chan wanted it or not.”

“We’re aware,” Matsukawa and Hanamaki chime.

“It’s just that,” with a nostalgic smile, Oikawa twirls on his chair once. In the direction he halts, there is an album – his high school graduation album. Tucked between the thick, dusty plastic pages of the album is a photograph. “We’ve already forsaken too much in this war.”

( _“You’re softer than you appear, Tooru. And that’s why I’m taking advantage of you. You can do this for me, yeah? For me, and for you. This is a profitable deal for both of us.”_

_“Tsukasa –“_

_“Please. I don’t, I can’t – I can’t bid my farewell to Shinsuke if I don’t make this right again.”)_

_Iizuna Tsukasa, you bastard. You fucking bastard._ Oikawa Tooru is not a sentimental person. He’s the epitome of selfish, materialistic to a fault, molded by his adolescent experiences and the industry. He has killed many people with families, he has been ruthless to men and women alike, and he has never served anyone. Every deed he does is for himself, for his benefit.

It is why he’ll never come to terms with those like Iizuna Tsukasa – those who put forth the lives of others, who care about something as vague and subjective as _justice._ ‘Doing the right thing,’ Iizuna declared. _What a dream._ Oikawa does not give even a quarter of shits about such things. He was not planning to accept this role, despite the gains. It was a hassle, a waste of energy and men.

But then, Iizuna had died.

“Tsukasa acted as the villain.” Iizuna had a person he cherished. Iizuna had imagined a future with that person. Oikawa had foreseen that future and was certain it’d unfold. It did not, with Iizuna gone. And now that person – that miserable person – was fighting to conclude what Iizuna had commenced.

And Oikawa Tooru was once unwillingly saved by that person.

( _“… You’re crazy, Shinsuke.” He gawked at the lifeless Inarizaki lackey who Kita shot._

_“Nobody will know as long as ya keep yer mouth shut.”_

_“The consequences for attacking a brother is –“_

_“Tooru. If ya have the leisure to prattle on, run.”_

_“… I’m not going to thank you.”_

_“Ya don’t hafta.”_ )

Kita Shinsuke and Iizuna Tsukasa – the two splotches of pure white on Oikawa’s canvas of murky black.

“If Tsukasa can pull off the bad guy act, then I can.” He smirks, “It’s not like I’m a good guy, either.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re the most sinister guy I met.”

“Aw, it’s my pleasure, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa snuggles into Hanamaki’s coat. “Bad guy or good guy, you’re still our Kumicho, Oikawa. And you promised us that you’d reform this world. Consider this an investment.”

_An investment, huh._

He remembers the feeling of caressing Iizuna’s leathery knuckles, as he collected his corpse at Itachiyama that fateful night. His friend died with a serene smile – Oikawa was glad. Iizuna, who spent the last decade of his youth repenting for sins he wasn’t meant to be burdened with, had at least died in peace.

“Mattsun, Makki,” the pair hums in acknowledgement, “do you think people are sent to hell for ending their own lives?”

“Nope. Not religious or shit.”

“Right? That’s what I believe, too.”

_Because Tsukasa deserves to be somewhere better than the pits of hellfire._

_Iizuna Tsukasa deserves that much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sawamura Daichi

**Author's Note:**

> I hate writing the first chapter of any long fic, because they tend to suck. The ones I write, anyway.


End file.
